Painted Truths
by Sisyphean Effort
Summary: The discovery of a hidden painting in the late fuhrer Roy Mustang's library leads to more questions than answers. . . what is the meaning behind it? A mysterious history begins to unfold. . . Roy/Ed eventually.
1. Chapter 1

_Okay, I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I consider this rated T. Also, it has been a looooong time since I have written anything, so I beg for your leniency when responding to this. It is merely the prologue to a much bigger story-a mystery, I suppose you could say. So let me set the stage. . ._

Painted Truths

by  
Sisyphean Effort

Chapter 1: Secret Treasures

"This way Ms. Hughes. . ."

The heavy paneled oak door swung open with a loud creak and two figures entered a large room dark and dusty with disuse. Very little light filtered through the few windows on the left. Still, even in the gloom one could make out all the massive shelves full of books. They dominated the room with their presence, row upon row, like forgotten soldiers in the dark.

"Oh my goodness, I didn't realize Uncle Roy had such an extensive library!"

Elysia Hughes stood just inside the threshold. She was a delicate creature, just coming into womanhood, and she swept her long brown hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture. She felt she was too young to have inherited so much. But then, not everyone was the god-daughter of the fuhrer of Amestris.

No-make that the former fuhrer, for "Uncle Roy," as he was always known to Elysia, was gone.

Elysia felt a wave of sadness wash across her small frame anew. Roy Mustang had been the closest thing to a father that Elysia had known, ever since the death of her own father so long ago. He had merely been "Uncle Roy" to her-not the powerful fuhrer of Amestris, the Fuhrer of Peace who had ushered their nation into a new prosperous golden age. No, he had been the man who had been there for her all through her childhood, stopping by her mother's house, bringing by small presents to try and make Elysia's brown eyes light up with something like delight-like they did before her father's untimely death. He tried, in so many small ways, to fill the black, gaping void that Maes Hughes had left behind. In the end it had ultimately proved unfillable. Elysia's mother never remarried and all through their life together that gaping hole remained, bearable, but always there-it was present in the numerous photos spread around their small apartment, the reading glasses set on a bedside table, her father's, never removed, never put away. In a way, Gracia Hughes' life had become a mausoleum to the past-despite the half-smiles and apple pies and warm kisses-Elysia could feel it there, whispering in every unspoken word or gesture. And Roy had tried to make it less-what?-unendurable? Yes, he had tried, tried so very hard, and Elysia could never thank him enough for it. . .

And now she had inherited everything. For the great (former) fuhrer of Amestris had no children of his own.

She heard a small chuckle come from her right. "Uncle Roy, huh? That sounds so strange. It makes the fuhrer seem remarkably. . .human."

Elysia turned and smiled softly at the young man-one of the fuhrer's secretaries, and one who had been entrusted with the arduous task of helping Elysia sort through the mountains of possessions that Mustang had left behind. The will had been very specific about the library, though. The extensive collection of books was to be donated to the great library in Central. The Central library, after all, had suffered through a devastating fire a few years back, and rebuilding and re-amassing the contents of what had been lost there had been-and still was-a long and continuous struggle. There was no doubting where all the books would go-everything here would be donated to the rebuilding of the great library.

"Oh no, I could never think of Uncle Roy as anything else," said Elysia. "Even to this day, the idea that he was _the_ fuhrer. . .well, _that's_ the strange part." Elysia smiled as a very specific image popped into her mind, a long ago memory-Uncle Roy sitting on her living room floor in shirt sleeves, swearing (much to her mother's dismay) as he tried to assemble a mechanical toy horse for her. Which birthday had that been? Seven? or Eight? Elysia couldn't quite remember which one, but the image of Roy on that day was specific and true. In fact, if she recalled correctly, Roy never did figure out the riddle of the mechanical horse, and in the end he had to get one of his officers, Fuery she believed it was, to make the thing work. Which reminded her-

"Aren't you related to Cain Fuery?" Elysia said, turning suddenly.

The young man seemed caught off guard. "Uh, why yes I am-he's my uncle, in fact." Elysia suddenly remembered the young man shaking her hand vigorously on the front grounds; he had introduced himself as Hodge Fuery, but at the time the connection didn't click. But looking at him now she could see the family resemblance-unruly curly dark hair, small quick eyes behind round framed glasses, small stature. Yes, she could definitely see it now.

"But your uncle left the military, right? He invented that, uh, that, communicator-thingy. And after that he got rich from the pattens, right?"

The young man smiled. "Yes, that's right. But my uncle always spoke highly of the military-thought it was a good way to do service to one's fellow man-so I joined up when I became of age. I'm pretty sure it was Cain's influence that got me this position so close to the fuhrer." He smiled again, wider. "Well, actually the fuhrer himself told me outright that was the reason-he never did like to beat around the bush."

Elysia laughed softly at that last statement. Fuhrer Mustang had been obliged to present a cool, controlled facade to the rest of the nation, but to those closest to him-the ones he trusted, like herself-he had always been unapologetically open and honest, sometimes almost brutally so. Like that time she told Uncle Roy that she didn't want to go to university, but instead to a culinary arts school, he had frankly told her that she was "wasting a brilliant mind on baking pies and scones." But in the end, the tuition was paid and nothing more was ever said about it.

Hodge moved further into the library and Elysia followed behind him, head swiveling right and left to take in the obscene amount of shelving on either side of them. Who knew Uncle Roy had been such a book lover? But, she supposed, there was so much that she didn't know-would never know-about her illustrious godfather.

"There's more stuff in here than just the books," commented Hodge. "There's the desk," he waved his hand to the back corner, "and the file cabinets, the paintings," He stopped and motioned to an ornate-looking vase on an oak stand. "That's a real Xingian vase, centuries old, a gift from the emperor himself. Probably worth a load of cenz." Hodge absently pushed his glasses further up his nose. They flashed and shifted in the poor lighting. "And of course there is the safe. No telling what kind of valuable stuff is in there." Elysia followed as Hodge led her to the back wall behind the desk (and one of the only available spaces not occupied by bookshelves). She watched as Hodge pulled an official-looking document from his jacket. He studied it intently then moved towards the wall. He inserted a glove finger into a small, almost imperceptible slit in the wood and slid back the large piece of concealing paneling. Underneath was a large black safe, almost as tall as a person.

Elysia watched as Hodge grasped the safe's dial and confidently swiveled it back and forth. There was a final "click," then Hodge pushed down on the handle. The safe door opened with a protesting groan, like a grumpy giant being awoken from a heavy slumber. Hodge stepped aside. "The fuhrer once told me specifically to never look at the contents of this safe. I don't know if that order extended beyond his death, but I'm not violating it now. I'll leave you to it. If you like I can go see about scrounging us up some tea. Between this, the desk contents and all the file cabinets, I think it will be a while before we leave this room."

"Thank you," replied Elysia, "and the tea would be lovely if you can get it."

Hodge nodded and turned and left the library, his boot heels clicking smartly on the wood floor and making a soft echo. Elysia glanced once more around the room. In her head, there were echoes, snatches of conversations, voices from people long gone, long dead. There were ghosts in this room. But whether or not they were real or only in her head was unclear. Elysia shivered slightly and turned back to the shallow darkness of the safe. She was just a teenager, barely a woman, yet she had been given this access to all the dead fuhrer's belongings and secrets. "Uncle Roy," thought Elysia and she smiled again, remembering how it had been with them, with him as _just_ Roy, not the incomparable Fuhrer Mustang. _Just_ Roy smiling and smirking and being so unbelievably aggravating in the way he would always reach out and ruffle the top of her head like she was a little kid (and she had been a little kid, but no, don't tell her that!). Roy laughing and playing fetch with the puppy he had brought to her, out in the park. _ Just_ Roy. That was who Elysia remembered, not some cold and distant fuhrer, and she invoked these fond memories like a happy talisman in her mind as she reached inside the safe.

The largest item in the safe appeared to be some sort of tall canvas painting, and as she reached in to haul it out, two things happened at once:

First, she felt pain in her hand as the dangerously sharp edging of the gilt frame cut into her palm, causing her to cry out and lose her grip on the entire thing. The painting lurched mutinously and landed on the floor with a large resounding thud, yet miraculously upright and slouching (like an agile cat) against the safe wall.

Second, she recognized the subject of the painting and the complete and utter shock of it made her forget about the cut on her hand entirely.

The painting had been done in the darkest, boldest oils, the background of an unidentified space/room bleeding into black. Glowing in the foreground was the figure of a boy-no, a man, corrected Elysia-sitting sideways on some overly ornate and completely unimportant piece of furniture. His right leg was bent and propped up casually on the base of the chair and his bent wrist-silver, shining, and very much made of metal-rested on a black-clad knee. The subject had his head turned toward the viewer, and that face, oh his face, looked over that metal arm towards the viewer with amber-gold eyes of blazing _fire_. Fire! That was the only way Elysia could describe it and she felt caught, hooked in the flames of that painted, heated gaze. He was _so_ beautiful, all light, all shimmering hair and eyes and flashing metal silver. She had literally forgotten to breathe. Elysia felt something unknown wrench inside of her, something she didn't know was there. It was as if she had been pinned, stilled so completely by the beautiful boy's fiery gaze, that her mouth hung open and she couldn't move. The only thing that remained in her thoughts was a name, repeating with the insistent urgency of a musical leitmotif, just one name. . .

_Edward_. . .

End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello all. I didn't think that I would be updating this so soon, but after a losing bout with insomnia_ _last night, my treacherous mind said, "hey--you're not sleeping, so why not give chapter 2 a go?_ _So this is me giving it a go. And also, thank you so much for your kind remarks_ _on this piece; I truly am grateful._ _But now, back to the mystery. . ._

Chapter 2: Secrets within Secrets

Elysia stood before the painting, contemplating the boy in the picture even as he seemed to peer back at her, his expression holding. . .What? A hint of mischief? A dare? A look of. . ._life_? But no, it wasn't life, it was just paint. Unbidden, a memory surfaced, arcing from the depths of her childhood, of a boy with golden blond hair and a red coat. A loud, boisterous storm of sound and color. Edward! Elysia could remember sitting on the floor of her room as Edward used his alchemy--or magic, as Elysia had then thought of it, something that only came from angels or fairies--her own childish laughter ringing as he created for her a miniature zoo of clay animals, all for her new play barn. Edward, the bright eyed fairy child who knew magic, who could create things out of what seemed like nothing, who would then wink at her afterward as if it were their own special secret, just for the two of them. That was how her younger self remembered Edward Elric.

And then. . .

The day soon came when Elysia, so young and small and lacking in adult understanding, had asked her mother innocently, after she had plucked one of the little zoo animals from the floor, "Mama, when is Edward coming back to play with me?" And Elysia's mother, her expression sad, closing, had merely replied:

"He's gone beyond the Gate."

Elysia did not quite know what that meant, but even then, she intuitively understood her mother's expression and tone. It was the same as when she had been told that her father had gone to Heaven, and he would not be coming back. There was a finality to that statement, a shutting of a door, and with it, hope. Edward was gone.

"Ms. Hughes, your hand!"

Elysia started as Hodge walked toward her, with tea tray in hand, which he then set on the grand oak desk. He whipped out a white handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her. She had forgotten about the cut. She had been so wrapped up in the painting and the memories that it brought forth that she hadn't bothered to take notice of the inky trail of red running down her arm. She took the cloth with a quiet, "Thank you," and turned back to the picture.

"You're very welcome," replied Hodge with a smile. Elysia watched as his face changed as his eyes alighted on the picture. "Oh my," was the only thing Hodge said at first. Elysia watched carefully as he reacted to the image of Edward in the painting--and there was a definite reaction--Elysia could see it and she knew then that it was not just her. This Edward, the one presented by the artist, was a fierce and beautiful thing. _Angel_, _all fire_. Elysia was sure she had never seen a more effective rendering.

Hodge pushed nervously at his glasses. He drew closer to the painting, struggling with his thoughts. "Hey, isn't this. . ."

"The Fullmetal Alchemist," Elysia finished for him.

"Yes, yes!" nodded Hodge excitedly, suddenly remembering. "He was the youngest state alchemist ever, qualifying for the post at age twelve." Hodge recited this mechanically, as if it were something he had learned from a textbook. And he probably had learned it from a book, thought Elysia, for how could someone like Hodge know about Edward any other way? It had been how long now? Eleven? Twelve years since the Fullmetal Alchemist and his brother had disappeared from their world? Elysia had been a little girl then, and even now her memories of Edward were clouded and obscured by the persistent, unforgiving march of time. It had been so very long ago. . .

Meanwhile, Hodge was studying the painting up close in detail, squinting as Elysia murmured behind him, "It's beautiful, isn't it?" She then saw that Hodge had become suddenly still.

"Well now _that's_ interesting," said Hodge softly. He motioned Elysia closer and his gloved hand pointed to the signature in the corner. "Do you see this name?"

Elysia peered at the ornate, flowing script: Chiaro Scuro.

Elysia shook her head, not recognizing the artist. But as she turned to watch Hodge's profile in the crouching gloom, she could see that he did. And he was perplexed by it. He was completely frozen.

"_Hodge, I want you to find the address of this man for me."_

_"Of course, Fuhrer," replied Hodge, taking the folded note from Roy Mustang's hand. On it was written a single name: Chiaro Scuro. Hodge's eyes were lowered toward the fuhrer's fingers. They were shaking. . ._

Hodge straightened, snapping instantly out of his reverie. Then: "A few months before the fuhrer's death, I accompanied him on a diplomatic mission to Xing. You remember the one, I'm sure; it was in all the papers at the time. Well, while we were there, the fuhrer asked me to find out the address of a particular artist," Hodge motioned again toward the signature in the corner. "The name he gave me was Chiaro Scuro; he was the official portrait painter to the Emperor of Xing."

Elysia's eyes widened, "The Emperor of Xing? Then no wonder this painting was done with such skill--

"Ms. Hughes, that's _not_ the point"--

"but Hodge, Xingian artists are world renowned"--

"Ms. Hughes, people actually_ sit_ for Chiaro Scuro's portraits"--

"But Hodge!"--

Elysia abruptly stopped speaking and a creeping stillness overtook the room. She stared at Hodge, a question in her eyes, a question that was answered by him with a small, eloquent nod toward the corner of the painting. Beside the signature in the corner was a date.

And it was dated _last year_.

End chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: (Re) Collections

_6 months earlier. . ._

"Well, that went off without a hitch. . ."

Hodge tried desperately to keep up with fuhrer Mustang's long stride as they made their way down a narrow passage way. In his arms, he juggled several dossiers: the fuhrer's itinerary, notes, communications, and details on the trade agreements that were going to be the main focus of the upcoming tete-a-tete between the fuhrer and the emperor, Xiao Lee. Leading the way before them was the emperor's chief minister, Lin Chan, a short, bald man, who was all swirling robes and nasally tones. Hodge could tell from his curt remarks and almost-but not quite-impudent speech that he did not approve of this private meeting between the emperor and the fuhrer; it was an insult to the ministers of both cabinets to be shut out of such a conversation. But that had been the emperor's wish, nothing to do with the fuhrer, and it was well known that Emperor Lee often conducted his business in an eccentric manner, mostly neglecting to pay any heed to the advice of his ministers, leaving them fuming, cast off, unacknowledged. But it was also known that the Emperor could be-and often was-a capricious and cruel man, a man who would brook no insolence or disagreement from those who served under him-and therefore, the ministers said nothing against him.

"That was all pomp and circumstance, Fuery-the easy part, I would say-the real work comes later." Mustang turned his head slightly, showing his profile from behind, and Hodge thought again of the lavish welcoming ceremony they had attended earlier. Roy Mustang had looked every inch the Fuhrer of Amestris . . .

_The reception hall of the emperor's palace gleamed in polished bronze and gold, hundreds of lit candles and low sconces lending it the eerie beauty and solemnity of a cathedral. Banners of purple and red streamed down the walls, all earthly representations of each of the emperor's many clans. The carpet leading to the emperor's dais was lush, scarlet; it made not a single sound as Fuhrer Mustang entered with his entourage, the ensuing promenade creating a beguiling spectacle for all to see. Roy Mustang wore a fitted uniform of cobalt blue decorated with numerous medals of state, so much decoration-glowing and shining-turning him into a miniature sun. The uniform was nothing to the man himself, though, merely background ornamentation. Black hair, black eyes, and white skin that angels would surely have envied-the fuhrer of Amestris was a handsome man, no doubt about it, and the eager crowd watching from either side of the aisle_ _nodded and whispered their approval._ _Even under the duress of such close, unforgiving scrutiny, Roy Mustang kept his expression clear and eyes focused in front of him-he could feel the appreciative stares from the members of the Xingian congregation, and he acted accordingly and with grace, holding his head in the manner of a man who took his beauty for granted, but knew that others did not._

_Mustang's procession came to a halt at the base of the marble steps that lead to the emperor's throne. Emperor Xiao Lee rose, an invitation for Mustang to proceed up the stairs onto the dais. If Mustang was the embodiment of male beauty, then the emperor was his contrast: an unforgiving childhood illness had left the emperor's face riddled with pock-marks, and an assassination attempt from a few years earlier had left an angry, jagged scar on the right side of his face. His beard hid some, but not nearly enough, of these numerous flaws. Mustang did not care to look at him, but his always coolly calculating mind merely pointed out that by comparison, he would come out of this little spectacle looking even better. Mustang felt a familiar smirk threatening to rise to his lips, but at the last minute he shut it down-this was neither the time nor place._

_The emperor and the fuhrer bowed to one another, each exchanging pleasantries and wishes for a mutually beneficial meeting of minds. After all the correct and official words had been spoken, Mustang waved to one his lieutenants, who came forward with a long, velvet lined box. The lid was opened and Mustang, with perfect grace and humility (even if feigned), lifted out a beautifully crafted sword with an ornate jeweled handle set with gold filigree. The emperor nodded appreciatively, accepting the proffered gift, then he motioned for one his ministers to bring forth an offering of his own: a large Xingian vase from one of the old dynasties, sixth century, and utterly unique and valuable. Mustang accepted the gift with a low bow, aware of every moment that he was watched, making sure to project the perfect mixture of strength and humility, of confidence and utmost respect. He felt sure he succeeded-after all, he had spent years fashioning for himself the perfect image, a carefully honed and impenetrable mask of power and control. Control was what Roy Mustang prized above all things, and in this game, the game of political machinations and maneuvering, he was king. . ._

"We have arrived."

Chief minister Chan halted before a door heavy with wood carvings and baroque ornamentation. Hodge noted with disapproval that he had purposefully forgotten to add "fuhrer" to the end of his address and his jaw clenched with annoyance. He looked at Fuhrer Mustang for some sign that he had noticed this little slip in etiquette, but Mustang's expression was as cool and inscrutable as ever. Head raised, eyes veiled, hands clasped tightly behind his back-the fuhrer looked like a statue cast in hard, gleaming marble-white, cold, and just as perfect. It was this coldness and perfection that sometimes frightened Hodge, making the fuhrer seem less than human.

But how could one be the Fuhrer of Amestris and remain human?

"Fuery wait outside."

Mustang followed Chan into the emperor's private study. Though he looked perfectly strong on the outside, inside he felt wearied, the wear and tear of his station creeping into his psyche like blackened, choking vines. Yes, both the welcoming ceremony and the dinner afterward had both been a success, but that sort of thing was old hat to him. After all, was he not the one who had managed a peace treaty with Creta, a cease-fire with Aerugo, and peace talks with Drachma? He had years of successes behind him, a testament to his own skills and abilities. After so many years, he thought, he should be more than satisfied with his accomplishments. After all, hadn't this been his goal all along? The fulfillment of a promise? One he had made a long, long time ago, on a smoking battlefield as he stood-dead-eyed, bloodied, and despairing-next to Maes Hughes: _"One day I will be fuhrer and make all of this right."_

Mustang felt the sharp sting of regret as he remembered his long fallen friend. So many people had contributed to his rise to the top, so many of them pushing, believing, bleeding-_for_ _him_. He could not fail them! Mustang thought with fondness of his old crew from back then: Riza Hawkeye, who had watched his back, as promised, until the day he had reached the position of fuhrer, who had then left to live with and take care of Jean Havoc, who was wheelchair bound and spent his days running his family's general store (how had he not seen that coming?). Cain Fuery, communications and genius inventor in his own right, now rich beyond imagining. Heymans Breda, who had left the military to start a family and run a bakery, of all things, and Vato Falman, who he had last heard was teaching ethics at the University in Central. Yes, Mustang remembered all of them, had really cared, had actually _dared_ to care about all of those people, and remembering this helped remind him why he was doing all of this in the first place.

Mustang was drawn back to the present by the nasally sound of minister Chan's voice: "The emperor will be joining you shortly. Please, help yourself to some refreshment." He gestured toward a low table containing a full crystal decanter and several empty glasses, but he made no move toward it and he did not offer to pour. _Insolent again, thought Mustang, standing silent as a statue._ "Oh, and please feel free to browse the emperor's private cabinet of paintings. It has been said its collection is incomparable-no other country's artists can, as I have heard the emperor himself say, outdo the imagination and skill of those in Xing." With that, he gave a short-and insincere-bow and swept out of the room.

Mustang, with his back straight and expression clear of all intruding emotion (for he did not dismiss the thought that he may be watched, even here, in the emperor's private chamber), took a crystal goblet from the table and poured himself a well-deserved glass of wine. The red Xingian flavor was overly rich and he frowned at the taste. With nothing to do but wait, he drifted quietly over to the emperor's "private cabinet." The wall was mounted with several canvases of various sizes and colors. Depictions of lovingly draped ancestors, nubile maidens, and landscapes filled with heaven-piercing towers crowded the wall. He sipped the wine and moved leisurely from left to right, taking in first the portrait of a long forgotten empress dressed in a gown of rich, shimmering green, then to a picture of a Xingian warrior on horseback, the movement of the horse startlingly real, urgent and swift, as it dashed through a darken forest, and then to a third canvas of-

_Him._

Mustang froze, unable to believe what he was seeing. Earlier, he had been dallying in fond recollections of all his former subordinates, the memory of all those incredible, sacrificing souls that he cared so much about, and his mind had purposefully-and treacherously-shied away from the memory of this _one_. And almost as if his suppressed thoughts had a will and power of their own, here _he_ was. Gold eyes glared over cold reflective steel, punching him the gut with the fury of accusation: _"Don't you dare forget about me, you bastard!"_

The goblet dropped to the floor unheeded.

He could not suppress the small whine that issued forth. It was like seeing a ghost. A beautiful, taunting, unreachable ghost. Mustang forced his hands to remain by his sides, forced himself to not reach out and touch the paint. _So real._ His Edward. But that was the lie, wasn't it? The unforgiving, unacknowledged lie. He had never been _his_ Edward-only in those dreams where history re-wrote itself, where different choices were made, where chances were taken that in life at the time were impossible for the cold cowardice of his heart-only in lies and ephemeral dreams and re-creations was he ever his. Nightly, he dreamed of this. And nightly, he regretted, with all of what remained of his heart, the things he had _not_ said and done.

Mustang felt himself tremble, in a way he had not for years, maybe not since the nightmares of Ishval. _Why are you here? Why do you haunt me?_

Behind him the heavily ornamented door creaked open, revealing the darkened figure of Emperor Lee. "Ah, so we meet again. And in so much more comfortable an atmosphere, don't you agree?" The emperor barely glanced at him as he walked over to the low table with the decanter and dropped a heavy sheaf of papers onto it. It was a good thing that he was paying so little attention, otherwise he might have seen the expression on Mustang's unguarded face-his eyes, his body language, all of it, screamed that he was currently in pained, open warfare with himself. Mustang the fuhrer and Mustang the man were currently dueling inside his head for control: the fuhrer shouting and ordering him into a perfect stance of peaceful calm, and the man in him crying out that it was impossible and he had to find out why this picture was here, _now_.

The emperor glanced over at him, smiling, "Ah, so you have been viewing all the lovely treasures of my cabinet. Exceptional are they not? The one you are looking at there was done by my beloved Chiaro Scuro-the greatest portrait painter in all of Xing-only the finest and the loftiest sit for his portraits, sometimes waiting for months for the honor to do so."

Mustang's head instantly jerked back around to the painting, partially to conceal the newly dumbfounded expression on his face, and partially to give himself time to process the words the emperor had just uttered. _"Only the finest and loftiest sit for his portraits. . ." _How could someone who has been dead for over ten years sit for a painting? Could it be possible? Could he have somehow found his way back? Was he alive?

Mustang stared into the painted Edward's burning eyes, eyes that flashed with determined, smoldering intent-and those eyes assured that it was indeed possible-for _him._

Mustang cleared his throat, and hoping he sounded normal, remarked, "It is an exceptional piece of art. Who is the boy in the painting?"

The emperor went suddenly still, and his expression shut closed, became unreadable. He lifted his head and looked directly at Mustang, and he seemed to regard him closely for the very first time. Mustang's mind was screaming at him: "_Show him nothing!" _ Yet he felt himself grow hot under the emperor's penetrating, appraising gaze. Mustang could feel his heart start trip-hammering in his chest as he waited for the answer. Seconds passed. Then the emperor said, with a feigned casualness that revealed all that he was concealing: "He is no one."

Inside, Mustang the fuhrer warned Mustang the man that he was treading into dangerous territory by pursuing this line of inquiry, but for once the man in him won out, neatly shoving his public persona aside. "No one? But you yourself just said that only the loftiest and the finest sit for such portraits."

The emperor arched a single eyebrow, one that had been cut neatly in half by the vivid scar that adorned his face. What was it in his expression? Amusement? Annoyance? Hostility? Mustang only knew, could _feel_, that he was definitely hiding something, and this certainty made his breath catch and his blood freeze. _Where are you Edward?_

And then, with the finality of a heavy lid being slammed down, never to be reopened, the emperor repeated:

"He is no one."

End Chapter 3.

_Okay, this one didn't flow as easily as the other chapters-a fact that makes me nervous. Also, I'm confessing here and now that I lifted the line "he held his head in the manner of one who takes his beauty for granted, but knows that others do not" straight out of "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand. I just think it's a brilliant line, and I wanted to use it to describe Roy:)_


	4. Chapter 4

_Greetings all! I just wanted to say thanks again for all the wonderful comments--everyone, after all, needs some encouragement!_ _By the way, no one--and I mean no one--sees or edits my stuff before I post it. Why would I need to, when I have all you good people to read it for me? I'm sure you'll tell me if I've gone and completely jacked things up. So once again, thanks a bunch, and on with the show. . ._

Chapter 4: Jaded Pawns

Hodge Fuery sat on a beautifully carved--yet unmercifully uncomfortable--wooden chair just outside the emperor's private chamber. Moments passed and the door swung open with a bang, causing him to start and lose hold of the listing stack of dossiers he had been cradling. He dropped to the floor and immediately began sorting through the pile. His small bespectacled eyes alighted on the fuhrer's black, shining boots as they stopped right in front of him.

"Hodge, I want you to find the address of this man for me."

Fuhrer Mustang held out a small piece of paper. Still kneeling, Hodge took the note and unfolded it. It contained a single name: Chiaro Scuro. Hodge stared at the fuhrer's hands and saw that they were shaking.

He had also called Hodge by his first name, something he never did, unless under the smothering weight of some great stress. Alarmed, Hodge looked up at the fuhrer's face. The mix of emotions he saw there were so foreign, so utterly removed from what he usually saw there that Hodge sprung up with a snappy, "Of course, fuhrer," before turning and bolting down the hall as if the very hounds of hell were chomping at his heels. . .

Mustang watched Hodge's swiftly retreating figure, then steeled himself and turned and re-entered the emperor's private chamber. His mind was in complete and utter turmoil, and his two distinct--and until now, very separate--personae were both grappling for control, leaving Mustang shaky and without anchor. His eyes slowly drifted over the contents of room, the softly flickering oil lamps, the low table, the tall winged-backed chairs, the emperor sitting in one comfortably, seemingly perfectly at ease--his eyes looked at everything except the painting of _him_. To do so would be to risk an even greater unmooring. He could not afford that. Then his eyes alighted on a chess set that graced the wall's long sideboard. He found himself unconsciously drifting towards it, suddenly entranced by the board's obviously exquisite carved jade and ivory pieces, and he felt a small thrill as an unexpectedly rash and impulsive inspiration hit him, the idea forming like a cloud of mist in a low vale.

He wanted that painting!

Mustang knew that this irrational desire was a pathetic sort of sublimation, a two dimensional substitution at best. But he did not care. _Rash and impulsive, indeed._ That particular phrase described the boy in the painting far better than it did him. He could almost swear he could feel the growing amusement in the painting's eyes--taunting him with this fact. Ignoring this--and his own loud protesting voice, the one inside his head that begged him to see reason--Mustang straightened and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Would you care to make a wager with me, emperor?"

The emperor raised a single bisected eyebrow. He leaned farther back in his chair with exaggerated casualness, regarding him coolly. Slowly, so very slowly, his lips turned up in a parody of a smile. It was clear he had not been expecting this. Still, his tone was all false humor and congeniality as he asked, "Under what terms?"

"We play a game of chess, and if I win, you let me have that painting from your private cabinet. . ."

"And if I win?"

Mustang hadn't thought beyond that, and his brain scurried to come up with a suitable offering. He mentally flipped through the talking points in the dossier Fuery had been carrying. Then: "Amestris will lift all trade embargoes with Xing, and I will eliminate _all_ import taxes." His inner voice cried foul on this: he was rashly throwing away valuable income for the state, cenz upon cenz worth, and for what? For what? A just fuhrer, his inner voice reminded him, would not do such a thing, would not entangle the personal with the political in such a manner. But it didn't matter, he was like a man possessed: He wanted that painting and he would have it!

He just had to win.

Mustang waited, afraid that the emperor would decline this offer, but instead he clapped his hands together like a delighted child. "Agreed!"

The board was placed on the low table between them. Mustang, playing the ivory pieces, moved out his first pawn. The emperor responded in kind. Mustang had played chess with Grumman in Eastern headquarters hundreds of times, over and over, until he had become a veritable master of the game. But it had been years since he had last played and the emperor's level of skill was unknown to him. He moved out his knight, then the emperor moved his bishop. Mustang stared intently at the board, mind racing, calculating. . .

He set down his second pawn with a loud_ clack_! The emperor's jade bishop retreated. Mustang moved his knight forward. He took the emperor's jade pawn.

_Clack!_

"If I had known, my dear fuhrer, that my lovely art collection was going to prove to be such a distraction for you--well, I might have chosen a different location for business."

_Clack! _Mustang's ivory knight pulled back a pace.

"I'm not distracted at all, emperor. In fact, _I _am perfectly focused."

Another jade pawn moved forward. _Clack!_ Mustang noticed that his king was open and he pulled his slim, white bishop forward. Anxiety knotted in his stomach, a chain of desperation that closed around him, inch by inch, like a slow, insidious noose. He struggled valiantly to keep all those treacherous emotions from showing on his face. The emperor watched him closely all the while, glancing now and then at the board, moving his pieces without hesitation with dry, gnarled fingers. Another move and then another, and the board began to be emptied of its pieces. Mustang searched hard for an opening, looking for a weakness, _any_ kind of weakness that would give spark to a strategy that would grant him the advantage and bring an end to this folly. For this was folly, no doubt about it. Because he _knew_, absolutely knew, that if he won this game, then the relationship between Amestris and Xing would fall apart. So much rested on this one little game. The ridiculousness of it all was not lost on him.

Another_ clack! _and Mustang's ivory knight took a jade rook. Annoyance flitted across the emperor's face. Then, in a controlled, chilled voice: "It seems you have a rather unhealthy obsession with my dear Chiaro's painting, fuhrer." The emperor's eyes bored into Mustang's with reptilian calculation. "Why is that?"

Mustang's voice was equally cold: "It's exquisite."

_Clack! _Another pawn was swept from the board.

The emperor's lips twitched into a sly smile. "I did not realize that the fuhrer of Amestris had such. . .inclinations." The insinuation hung in the air, a trap that Roy was meant to fall into. Instead, he sidestepped, ever graceful, and parried with his own clipped retort:

"Like those of the emperor of Xing, apparently--for it's _your_ painting and hangs in _your_ private cabinet, does it not?"

_Clack! _Another jade bishop was taken.  
_  
_Anger rose to the surface of the emperor's face; it crested then dove back beneath the safe veneer of his cold, distant facade. "_I_ have seventeen wives, thirty-two concubines, and twenty-one children, my dear fuhrer. What exactly do _you_ have?"

Mustang had no answer for that. There was no answer. So he said nothing. Instead, he concentrated on the board, mentally attending to the problem at hand. And then. . .

He saw it!

_Clack! _Mustang moved his rook forward a pace. His heart raced and he forced himself not to give anything away as he went for the move that would put an end to all of this. Just seven more and it was done. The painting would be his. He just had to get the emperor to slip up and take his queen. Just the one small sacrifice and then it would all be over. . .

_Clack!_

"A pity fuhrer. . .you have left your queen open." The emperor raised his eyebrows at this and seemed to consider his next move.

_"Take it!" Mustang's inner voice screamed. "Just take it!"_

The emperor raised his jade knight, his hand hovering in the air.

_Take it!_  
_  
_And then the jade knight came down with a final, incontrovertible _clack! _The ivory queen was swept from the board. . .

Mustang felt a slow, satisfied smirk make its way up his face.

The painting was as good as his. . .

End chapter 4.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Alchemy of Art

Tall shutters stood open, letting in rays of late afternoon light: deep gold, an amber color slowly starting to turn dark with the silent sinking of the retreating sun. In the distance curved a river, waters racing and shimmering beneath the fading light. Behind the frame of the river, standing like massive ivory sentinels, were the climbing--and breathtaking--towers of the imperial palace. The stones caught and flashed in the golden light of the fading day; a sight so beautiful and bright that the heavens themselves must surely bow before it. In moments like these, when the strike of amber light was just perfect, incomparable, visitors and natives alike would stop and stare at the sight--the flowing river and the towers--and think to themselves that they had stumbled into the imaginings of an artist.

Chiaro Scuro sat before his stone work table by the massive windows of his studio. He had been methodically, and agilely, grinding the colors he would use for tomorrow's work, but his hand had stopped, frozen into place by the ethereal, fleeting beauty of the image in front of him. It was part of the reason he had his studio here, this view. The loveliness of the picture before him had served as his companion and muse on several occasions, and, like a man still besotted with a wife of many years--he was suddenly struck against by its inherent ability to move him.

A little regretfully, Chiaro tore his eyes away from the scene and glanced down at the curved indentation in his work table to the yellow ochre he had been meticulously working into a fine powder. The grains of color winked merrily and mischievously from the bowl--gold, again, like the retreating light of the afternoon sun. Unbidden, a memory surfaced:

_"It's like alchemy, isn't it?"_

_"What do you mean?" He stood, like now, before the stone grinding table._

_"Your art." The lift and flash of a metal limb, pointing--"You take these stones, break them down, and turn them into paint, then the paint is turned into art." A pause. "Take an object, deconstruct it, then rebuild it--it's the fundamental principle of alchemy." A flash of gold eyes and hair--_

_Yellow ochre._

"The color of trouble, completely and truly," Chiaro muttered to himself, glaring into the bowl as if the color was alive, existing to give him grief. He picked up a glass vile containing linseed oil and poured it into the mix, then picked up his muller and went back to grinding, his hand working with renewed, determined vigor.

A loud--and to Chiaro's ears--aggressive knock sounded at his front door.

Chiaro did not pause in his work; instead he called, "Enter," allowing a tone of annoyance to seep into his voice. His head remained bent over his task.

The front door swung open and clattered rudely against the back wall. Roy Mustang entered the room, a large canvas covered with a velveteen vermilion-colored cloth tucked awkwardly beneath his arm. He stopped, black eyes sweeping the contents of the room, searching. A fireplace with several tongs and stone bowls, a full length wall mirror, two large canvases--also covered--on easels, darkened, wood furniture with felt coverings and sturdy, elegantly curved legs. His eyes paused only once, alighting, briefly, on a large, square ottoman that was near the fireplace. His face was stony, determined. He turned and saw Chiaro sitting before the long work table in front of the windows. He approached silently, his eyes taking in the little clay pots of color--red madder, ultramarine, white lead, and bone black--before settling on the face of the man himself.

Chiaro raised a sharp, questioning eyebrow.

Without a word, Mustang swung the canvas from beneath his arm and sat it on the floor in front of Chiaro with a muted thud. He all but ripped away the vermilion cloth, tossing it aside in a dramatic gesture. He said nothing. He waited. Chiaro regarded the painting, then Mustang's face, then the painting again. Then Mustang asked:

"Where is the boy in this picture?"

A slow, amused smile crept across Chiaro's face, reaching up to his eyes and giving them a humorous sparkle. He attempted to cover his mouth--and that insuppressible, all-too-amused smile--with his hand, but he failed miserably. His shoulders shook with silent laughter. Mustang's eyes narrowed in suspicion; he did not understand this reaction at all, and he felt his own anger--which he had been carefully bottling up until now, cork pushed firmly into place --explode outward:

"And what the _hell _is so funny?"

The artist only laughed harder at this, and Mustang wanted nothing more than to grab his shoulders and shake him. How dare this short--and in Mustang's eyes--completely unimportant wraith of a man insult him this way! Mustang's eyes coldly--and haughtily--raked across the figure in front of him. Long, dark pony-tail, pointed goatee, unkempt beige robes splashed here and there with brilliant blotches of paint. And no shoes. His feet were completely bare. And they, too, were also spattered with paint. What kind of person received guests in such a condition?

Mustang's glare was all icy daggers and dismay. Then, for the second time that day, the expression was completely knocked from his face as the artist waggled his index finger at him and proclaimed:

"You--you are _exactly_ as Mr. Edward described!"

"_What?_"

"I believe his exact words were, 'Icy, pompous, arrogant bastard who thinks he can control everyone and everything around him.' Does that sound about right?"

Mustang's mouth opened and closed, without sound, a veritable parody of a fish out of water. He could practically hear those words echoing through the room, could hear them perfectly, even as his own mind hearkened back to a scene of his own. That timber of voice, the angry expression, the clenching of a metal fist; his mind reconstructed it all, in detail, from his own dwindling store of precious memory: "_Why do you bother asking for my report when it's obvious that you know everything I do? _" The defensive posture and large, amber eyes flaring with the righteousness of adolescent indignation--how he had loved that look, longed for it even now, despite the fact that he'd never gotten up the courage to say so--at this moment he would have begged on bended knees to have that back, all that seething, burning anger that was so many, many times, directed right at him.

At least it would be_ something_.

Mustang's face darkened and he could feel himself start to tremble again, even as his fingers tightened their hold on the gilded frame of the painting he was clutching. His head bowed, heavy with the burden of memory, and beyond that, possibility. In a quiet, and for him, unusually soft voice, he asked: "So_ he_ was here?"

Chiaro looked at Mustang as if he were a man who had taken leave of his senses. Sharp, black eyebrows knitted together, "What an absurd statement! You are holding the evidence of it in your hands, are you not?"

When Mustang did not answer, Chiaro's head tilted quizzically to the side, and with a curious regard, he asked (with just a hint of hesitation), "You--you are Roy Mustang, aren't you? The one Mr. Edward spoke about?"

"You said his name again. . ."

"I did. Should I not?"

Mustang's head shot up suddenly, eyes burning black, "Where is _he_?"

There was the unmistakable sound of anguish in that question, and Mustang wanted to regret that he had let such emotion show itself, here, with this stranger. _So_ _unguarded_. But he could not. Not with such possibility before him.

Chiaro's expression suddenly went cold, a mirror for Mustang's own perfect, indescribable agony. The painter looked into the other man's eyes, and there, in a place far beyond the sweeping scope of his anguish, he could see a frail, newly nurtured and burgeoning hope. It was a hope that he did not want to destroy. He did not want to be the black-winged messenger that would send all of this man's hopes crashing to the ground. It was all too much. But he would speak the truth:

"He is gone."

Mustang bowed his head again, his already pale knuckles going even whiter as they clenched harder on the painting's frame. Another quiet, barely heard question:

"Where?"

Chiaro shook his head regretfully. "I do not know. . ." He then moved to walk away and Mustang shouted, "Wait!--" and grabbed the painter's left hand, or rather, what was left of it. Mustang found himself looking at a reddened, angry stump, too new to go unnoticed, and which heretofore had been hidden by the man's long, bell-shaped sleeves. Mustang dropped the offending limb. "I'm sorry," he automatically said.

"Don't be. I paint with my right."

"Still. . ."

Chiaro shook his head again. "No, I don't want your pity." A slight pause. "And you did not come here for _me_." Chiaro smiled wanly and gestured to the furniture over by the fireplace. "Please, sit. I will make us both some tea. And then--then I will talk to you about Mr. Edward."

Mustang's head lifted. Again, that flash of hope, and behind that, hunger. _Yes, _Chiaro thought to himself, _I may not be able to give him the man himself, but I can gift him with my memory of him. . .yes, it is only a small thing, and hardly enough, but with that look on his face. . .I want to grant him this one small consolation, just this one thing. . ."_

And Chiaro hoped that his words would be as effective as his paint. . .

End Chapter 5.

_Well, that officially puts me a third of the way through, people. Time to go reward myself with a hot toddy--my "muse of fire," if you will. Speaking of which, I'm going to call the next chapter "For a Muse of Fire," a quote that I've handily snatched from Shakespeare--sorry if it sounds tacky. If I keep this up, I'm going to owe a lot of dead writers royalties._ . .


	6. Chapter 6

_Warning: flashbacks within flashbacks within flashbacks. Strictly Chiaro's POV.__  
__  
_

Chapter 6: For a Muse of Fire

_3 months earlier. . ._

_  
_Chiaro went from window to window in his studio, clicking each of the tall wooden shutters closed with an echoing _clang_! His mood was seething, and he chose to take his anger out on the safety of the inanimate objects before him. The source of his annoyance was a message that had been sent from the imperial palace only an hour earlier.

"_I have another commission for you from the emperor," said the messenger_.

_Chiaro was again seated at his work table. He never bothered to get up and answer his door for visitors, and those who knew his ways marked it as part of the "eccentric personality" of the artist. It was also this "artist's personae" which allowed him to get away with many things, but not everything--like a commission (if it could be so called, for Chiaro knew that it was, in fact, an order, and one he could not turn down) from the emperor himself.__  
__  
__ "But I've only just started Princess Daiyu's portrait!"__  
__  
__ "Then you will do both." An antagonizing smile, full of self-importance (if only second hand, as a mouthpiece for the emperor's commands).__  
__  
__ Chiaro sighed and thought of the bottle of imported whisky hidden beneath the table. "So--who is it now?"__  
__  
__ The messenger shrugged. "Some boy who is translating books from Amestrian in the palace library." Another antagonizing smile, and also a hint of amusement, as if he were reveling in some private joke. "Blond, too--not from Xing."__  
__  
__ Chiaro's shoulders sagged. A librarian? And blond? He had a nasty suspicion that he was going to need a whole new color palette. And he had not paid the apothecary for the last batch of colors he had purchased. . .__  
__  
__ He again thought of the bottle hidden beneath the table.__  
__  
__ The messenger, satisfied, turned to leave. He opened the studio door and paused. "Oh, and I'm told he has a metal arm. . ."__  
__  
__ Chiaro's head snapped up. A metal arm? For the first time in days--no, make that weeks--Chiaro found himself intrigued with the possibility of a new portrait.__  
__  
__ And he was so sick of painting simpering princesses. . .__  
__  
_Chiaro clicked the last of the shutters closed and turned to look at the painting on the easel in front of him. Princess Daiyu was a sweet girl--if a little vacuous--and surprisingly innocent. Of course, now that she had been presented at court, all that would probably change. The competition among the clans, each of them vying for the emperor's favor, was ruthless, and wore down even the kindest and noblest of personalities. In Chiaro's rendering of her, the princess stood before the tall windows in full sunlight, her pale, cornflower blue robes draped becomingly around her willowy, delicate form. A shy, almost imperceptible smile adorned the small features of her face. She leaned outward toward the blue of the sky, like a flower in full sunlight. Yes, very pretty indeed. Chiaro wondered how long it would take for the Xingian congregation to break her.

At least he had captured her before that had a chance to happen.

A heavy knock sounded at the door. Chiaro, in typical fashion, called, "Enter," and picked up a large felt cloth to drape over the princess's portrait. Chiaro allowed no one to see his work before it was completely finished.

The door slowly creaked open, but at first no one came in. Chiaro watched from nearby, mostly hidden by Princess Daiyu's over-sized canvas. A single, dark-clad arm slipped around the door frame, hesitating, then a figure, dressed head-to-toe in black, in a material which reflected light in a high, eye-catching sheen, walked through the door, moving with careful steps toward the fireplace. He stopped before the fire, eyes raking the contents of the room, his stance defensive, as if expecting to be attacked, not painted. Long blond hair caught back in a loose braid, high cheekbones, amber eyes large and slightly tilted in the corners, profile perfect and straight and illuminated becomingly by the light of the fire-- so this was the _librarian_ that Chiaro was supposed to paint?

He was _beautiful.__  
__  
_Chiaro was definitely going to need a new color palette. . .

"Is there anyone here?" the boy called.

Chiaro forced himself to stop watching and moved silently from the concealing safety of the easeled canvas. He came toward the boy by the fireplace, a welcoming smile firmly in place. "I am here. My name is Chiaro Scuro, portrait painter to the emperor of Xing. And you are?"

"Edward Elric." More hesitation as he lifted his hand in greeting. Chiaro grasped it.

It was not the metal one.

Edward lowered his head. "You're staring awfully hard." A pinched look.

"I will be staring at you for several weeks--it's my job, so get used to it."

Edward began twisting his gloved hands together in a pained, nervous gesture: "I've never done anything like this before. . .and if you must know, I would rather face off with a whole herd of chimeras than sit still for hours on end while you paint me. But. . ."

"The emperor commands it," Chiaro finished for him. Edward only nodded and lowered his eyes. There was something there, an obvious concealment of purpose, but Chiaro brushed it aside for the time being. After all, they would have hours together, plenty of time to discover what secrets were hidden behind those beautiful golden eyes. . .

"Then we are both the emperor's creatures." Chiaro smiled a smile of collusion. "Now if I may take your coat, I think we can get started." Chiaro held out his hand. Edward regarded it dumbly, then slid his jacket off his arms, the numerous zippers and buckles clinking together loudly. He dropped it by the fireplace like a black banner of surrender. Chiaro stared again, and Edward fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot, eyes melded to the fireplace grate.

_Not used to being looked at, this one, thought Chiaro. He doesn't see himself clearly at all.__  
__  
_Ah, but such obliviousness was rare. Chiaro thought suddenly of blue orchids.

Beneath his jacket, Edward wore a black sleeveless shirt, and, like a firefly, Chiaro felt himself drawn to the light-reflecting metal of his right arm. He approached Edward warily, like he was a stray cat prone to bolt at the slightest loud or sudden movement. He stopped before Edward, palms up in supplication, and asked, "May I?" His gaze indicated the metal arm, and Edward lifted it towards the painter, allowing him to grasp it and exam the design in close detail. Chiaro held up the arm, his touch delicate (as if he were not, in fact, grasping cold, hard steel), his expression admiring, as if he were looking at a strand of the most beautifully cut diamonds. A rare smile came over the painter's face. "Yes, this will be a challenge to paint!" he exclaimed with a happy sigh, releasing the arm and stepping back a pace.

Edward looked at him as if he were mad. It was a look that Chiaro was used to and he dismissed it, turning to walk to the far wall by his grinding table to take out a new blank canvas. He moved with purpose, situating it onto an empty easel, conscious that all the while Edward stood, shifting, impatient and at a loss, by the low, crackling fireplace.

"What do I do?" the blond finally asked.

Chiaro came back over to the fireplace, and with a violent shove of his bare foot, he kicked a large, dark, and perfectly square ottoman over to the right of the grate. The backing wall was dark, and the only light was from that of the fire on the left side. "Sit on this," Chiaro commanded. When Edward didn't move, Chiaro hopped onto the ottoman and arranged himself: leg bent, knee up, in profile, his wrist resting on his knee, head turned toward the canvas. "Like this," he instructed. "Do you see?" Edward nodded, and then he and the painter switched places, with Edward shifting uncomfortably on the ottoman, but with him, in the end, finally getting close to the pose that Chiaro had demonstrated.

Chiaro stood back and took in the scene, and he noted that Edward was trying so very, very hard not to move or lower his eyes. It must have been a trying effort. Then Chiaro said: "Too much black."

Edward remained silent, a question in his eyes.

"You need a strong color," Chiaro murmured to himself, drifting away from his subject, almost as if Edward wasn't there. The painter walked over to a closet and started sifting through it, muttering to himself all the while, until he had finally found what he wanted. "Ah-ha!"

Chiaro swung back around to Edward in triumph: "This!"

In his hands, he held a bright red, hooded cloak.

"Well, of all the damn irony," said Edward.

A confused look flitted across the painter's face. "What? You don't like it?"

Edward smiled his first genuine smile of the day (and oh, what wonderful things it did to his face, thought Chiaro), and replied, "Nothing--it's nothing at all."

"Just drape it over your left shoulder--like this--just for the added color." Chiaro walked over to Edward and lay the cloak across his flesh arm, his hands arranging it just so, his touch gentle, reverent, like a supplicant being allowed to adjust the mantle of a saint. Chiaro then went back around to look at the newly added detail. "Now raise your right arm just a little bit more. . ." Chiaro traced the air with his finger. Murmuring to himself (a habit that he found impossible to break, even with the most esteemed of subjects present): "The reflected light of the arm leads the eye up to the face. . .the eyes especially. . .yes, that is what I want: all the focus there." He then turned sharply and went back to his canvas, taking up a bit of charcoal with which to do the initial line drawing.

"So now I just sit here?" Chiaro could hear the impatient, petulant tone over the comfortable barrier of his canvas.

The charcoal scritched across the stretched cloth, maddening.

"Well, you could talk to me about yourself," suggested Chiaro. _Scritch, scritch, scritch._ "Think of me as your confessor, if you will, and this canvas as the screened wall of the box between us." The scritching stopped: "I won't tell the emperor anything."

"I don't go to confession; I'm an atheist." An instantaneous response.

"See--it's not so very hard, is it? There was no real reason in the world for you to tell me that." The scritching resumed. Then Chiaro asked, "Why are you here, in Xing?"

A marked look of sadness overtook the boy's features, and Chiaro cursed himself for asking what was obviously a loaded question right from the beginning. Still, the boy responded:

"It's--it's my brother. He is ill, in a very serious way. And I had an idea that maybe Xingian medical alchemy could help. . . I wanted to see Dr. Chao Wong."

Chiaro nodded to himself, unseen, behind the canvas. Dr. Wong was the esteemed healer to the imperial family, a skilled alchemist who combined the alchemic arts with medicine. His specialty area was respiratory illnesses. Chiaro could guess the cause of the boy's illness.

"He has consumption." A statement, not a question. A single dark eye peered around the border of the canvas--the look of sadness on the boy's face had deepened, completely overtaking his features, and Chiaro, ever the consummate artist, thought: _"That expression will never do for this painting."_

"So," began Chiaro, "Have you been able to see Dr. Wong?"

Edward shifted uncomfortably, nearly relaxing out of the pose, then straightened once again as he suddenly remembered not to move. A bare hint of a smile appeared. "Yes. . .yes we have. But it wasn't easy though. I waited around the palace gate for days, _days_, but they would not let me in."

"So how did you manage it?"

"I was getting desperate, waiting like that, so when the emperor's carriage finally came through the gates--I threw myself in front of it."

_ So reckless, thought Chiaro. _"Throw yourself to the wolves next time," he muttered, too soft to be heard. But that trick had obviously gotten the emperor's attention, for better or for ill. . . _Yes, thought Chiaro, the emperor would have liked such a melodramatic gesture._ _His family and his congregation bore him; his eyes are sick with it_--_he looks for anything, anyone different, not like those around him--anything to alleviate his own permeating sense of ennui._

"I am glad you have been able to see the good doctor. Is. . .has he been of any help?"

"Too soon to say yet." Edward's amber eyes took on a far away look: "But I am feeling optimistic."

"Good." _Scritch, scritch, scritch. _Chiaro's hand paused, considering, then he asked: "You are from Amestris, correct? What did you do there?"

A long sigh. . .Of what? Regret? Or perhaps nostalgia? Again, that single black eye appeared around the edge of the canvas, considering. _Still, that expression will not do._

"I used to be a state alchemist."

"What does that mean?"

Edward's lips curved upward in a wry, half-smile, "It means I was a dog of the military."

Behind the safety of the easel, Chiaro arched a fine, dark eyebrow. "I thought that Amestris was, in essence, a _military_ state. Your people--don't they look up to the military, and to your fuhrer--"

"Don't get me started on that bastard fuhrer!" A flash of anger, hot, intense, and mixed with something, something else besides--

_There!__  
__  
_Chiaro's hand flew across the canvas. _That _was the expression he had been waiting for. He was smiling to himself, pleased to have found the key that would unlock the holding cell of emotion that would allow his painting to be something more, something _alive. _It was like touching fire! It was perfect. . .

He just had to get Edward to keep talking about the fuhrer. . .

End Chapter 6.

_ I just wanted to say thanks again for all the wonderful comments and please--please--keep them coming! Sometimes this rock feels too heavy to push, but all the extra encouragement definitely makes it easier!_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Compromises

They were pulling a body out of the river.

Chiaro watched from one of the long windows of his studio, a rapidly cooling mug of black coffee cradled in his hands. The late afternoon light was fading, running yellow-gold into dark amber, the color turning everything it touched into burnished brass. Across the river, the palace towers gleamed idly in the late day sun. It was lovely to look at, just like always, but. . .

Nothing ruined a pretty view like a dead body.

Behind him, the repetitive sound of metal on wood: _clink, clink, clink._

Chiaro knew, without turning around, that Edward was tapping his metal foot on the floor in a bored, subconscious motion. Eventually, he would switch to the other foot, and the tone would change. It was Chiaro who had suggested that they take a break; after spending the whole first half of the day on Princess Daiyu's portrait, his hand was starting to cramp. Chiaro was, in essence, a lazy person who preferred to work at his own pace: snail-like. Getting up at the break of dawn to mix two different color palettes, charring the ivory and ochres in the fireplace, all of it was proving to be a lot work, work that the artist was starting to strain under. It was like having two beautiful, demanding--and in the end, very expensive--mistresses. A lot of work, a lot of hassle, and not very much pay-off.

"You're a terrible model, you know," remarked Chiaro, his gaze still resting on the steadily growing crowd by the river bank. The victim appeared to be young, male, with a cap of glossy, wet, blacker-than-black hair. So young and so very dead. The color of his skin was already turning in hue, going cold. White lead and azurite. Chiaro glanced down at his palette.

"That pose is a pain in the neck--literally, my neck won't stop cramping. Why did you pick that pose; are you some kind of sadist?"

"Because it is the right one." Chiaro turned away from the window. Edward lay sprawled across the ottoman, head hanging upside down off the side, regarding him, his pose as lazy and insouciant as a cat's. Then, almost as if he could hear the comparison in Chiaro's head, he stretched, long and luxuriously, and Chiaro thought of the little black cat with yellow eyes that had been hanging around his door just that morning, meowing and complaining, it's large gold eyes blinking back at him lazily. Black cats were bad luck.

"I'm starving; do you have anything to eat around here?" Always hungry, just like a cat. Then Chiaro froze, remembering:

_Princess Daiyu stood before the open shutters of Chiaro's studio, her expression serene and unconflicted as always, basking, like a sunflower, in the early morning glow. "Master Chiaro?"_

_"Yes, your highness?"_

_"Do you know the Lady Rong Zhao?"_

_The phrase, "nasty piece of work," instantly flew into Chiaro's mind. Rong Zhao was the emperor's first favored concubine, and she ruled over the other ladies of the palace with an iron, velvet-gloved fist. Chiaro merely nodded, expecting the princess to say next something along the lines of, "Lady Rong is being so horrible to me," or "Lady Rong threatened to have black tar poured over my hair while I slept (that last had been known to happen)." But, instead:_

_"Do you know Lady Rong's favored method for dispatching her rivals?"_

_Chiaro's hand froze in mid-air. It was a well known, but never spoken of, fact that Lady Rong would poison (and had in the past) the food of anyone she considered a threat to her station inside the palace hierarchy. Only a few months ago, the lovely Lady Biyu had fallen victim to her underhanded methods. Chiaro chuckled nervously, fobbing it off, saying, "But your highness, you can't have any possible reason to think that Lady Rong would try to do you any harm. . ."_

_The serene smile was gone. "Oh no, I do not think that Lady Rong would ever try to do anything like that to me," Then the princess's eyes cut to the side, a light of unexpected seriousness in them. "But you are also doing Mr. Elric's portrait, are you not?"_

_Perhaps not so vacuous after all. . ._

"Oi! Chiaro, are you listening?" Edward's voice cut through his train of thought, snapping him out of the memory.

A warning, then. But what to do?

Chiaro, while painting the portraits of various individuals, often found himself acting the role of Father Confessor. And even though he always managed to listen with an intent and sympathetic ear, he made it his own strict policy to keep a certain boundary of impersonality between his subjects and himself. And he never--_never_--involved himself in palace politics. Oh, he heard much, too much, in fact: things that would curl the toes and make him glad once again that he did not actually live there ("But my dear emperor--I cannot give up this view--truly it is my muse and _so_ inspiring!"). He was very much glad for the distance and the sanctuary of his own personal space. But--

"Don't eat the food in the palace!" he blurted suddenly.

Edward frowned, "But I was asking _you_ for food."

Undaunted, Chiaro hissed: "The Lady Rong may try and poison you."

Confusion marked Edwards features, "Who the hell is Lady Rong?"

"She is the emperor's first concubine," he whispered, his eyes darting around nervously as if he expected the lady herself to jump out from behind the shutters at any moment.

Edward laughed mirthlessly. "You are seriously trying to say that the emperor's, er, concubine, wants to poison me?" He laughed even harder. "That is the craziest thing I've ever heard."

_Oblivious fool, thought Chiaro. _The painter's eyes turned dark, pleading, and then he reached out--something else that he made his policy to never do--and grabbed Edward's arm. "Is it? Is it, Edward--think!" Black eyes bore into gold ones.

Edward snatched his arm away. "I am not sleeping with the emperor!" he announced, his voice low and gravelly with anger. He plopped back down on the ottoman, his face taking on an air of resignation. "I won't. This painting--this painting is the compromise, and once Al gets better, we are both leaving Xing." Edward rubbed his face with both hands, metal and flesh, his body threaded with barely suppressed waves of pent-up aggression. "Just a few more treatments and we can go. I just have to hold until then."

Chiaro's expression was dubious. Did the boy honestly think he could rack up such sexual debts and get away without payment? He obviously did not know the emperor's methods at all. _Likes to play with fire, this one._ Chiaro watched Edward's face change: brow creased, eyes deep in thought, the lines around them speaking of a relentless anxiety. Chiaro hoped he would not get burned. He hoped he could get away from the emperor and Lady Rong. He hoped. . .

_ Damn him for making him care anyway. . ._

Chiaro's decision making abilities had obviously grown poor. He was breaking his own set of carefully crafted rules. He should have kept the wall of the canvas firmly between them. It was in his nature to care about paintings, not people. So why was he doing this? Why did this boy have to be so _interesting_? Chiaro had obviously been on his own for far too long. The painter sighed a drawn-out, but resolved sigh:

"Come then, we will find you something eat."

And Chiaro knew, once you started feeding a stray cat, you could never get rid of it.

End Chapter 7.

_Okay, so I managed to get one more in before the weekend: Saturday, Sunday, & Monday are non-update days for me_, _so I hoped you enjoyed this one short bit and I'll get to writing again next week! :)_


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Of Insidious Intent

Chiaro's mood was maudlin. He was seated at his stone work table, but instead of working, he slumped, chin pressed onto folded arms, staring bleary-eyed into the distance to the flowing, ever-lulling waters of the river. The water curved and writhed like a snake, a darkened image reinforced by his own heavy drooping eyelids and the effects produced by the bottle of whisky that sat by his elbow. There was no solace to be found in the river's beauty today. The day had not started off well, and Chiaro could, at present, see no way of salvaging it.

He'd had it out with the apothecary just that morning, over all the money that he owed for the colors he'd been getting--twice the amount than usual--and he was _way_ overdue for payment. _Then_ he'd had it out with his black market supplier, Jing--for the lapis lazuli and the ivory and the rare, imported bottle of Amestrian whisky that he was currently nursing--over what he owed _him_. Nothing, absolutely nothing, drove Chiaro to the bottle quicker than money troubles, and lately, it seemed that all he _had _was money troubles. And then there was the matter of a certain blond alchemist he was painting. . .

Chiaro looked down at the arrangement of colors on his work table: White lead, yellow ochre, vermilion, red madder, red ochre, charcoal and bone black, and the very bright, very sun-like, weld. Edward's palette. Thank goodness he had finished with Princess Daiyu's portrait yesterday; the lapis lazuli that he used in order to get just the right shade of ultramarine for her gown had been costing him (even at black market prices) a small fortune. So he had that small consolation, at least.

The painter rubbed his temples and and pressed his cheek to the cool, roughened surface of the stone. Splashes of red and yellow ochre curved in front of his unfocused eyes, melding into a fiery orange. The whisky he'd been drinking was working its particular arcane magic, and he felt the noise inside his head subside, replacing his knot of anxiety with a warm and welcoming feeling of apathy. Maybe, he thought, Edward would not come today. Perhaps he would be granted a reprieve. It would be a blessing, thought Chiaro, to not have to stand in the scalding heat of that all-too-intense gaze.

_No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed. . ._

A familiar knock sounded at the door, metal on oak, and Chiaro groaned. The door swung open, even without the artist's usual annoyed call of "Enter!" Heavy footsteps clunked to a stop just behind his work table. Chiaro lifted his head to speak and. . .

"What the hell happened to your face?!"

The left side of Edward's cheek was covered in an almost perfect burgundy and purple arch that just managed to graze his eye, which was vaguely swollen. By contrast, his expression was sheepish, almost apologetic. "Uhm, yeah, I sort of had a little accident."

Chiaro exploded. "How the hell am I supposed to paint you, looking like that?" The apathetic, whisky-induced haze was quickly lifting, and Chiaro was sorry to see it go. "And what do you mean by 'accident'?"

Edward reached around the painter and deftly plucked the bottle of whisky from his grasp. He upturned the bottle, taking a long swig, and almost immediately started gagging. "What the hell is in here? " he said, pulling a face. "It smells like automail maintenance oil."

"That stuff is hard to come by, I'll have you know," growled the artist, anger unabated. "If you don't like it, then give it back."

Edward merely shook his head and took another swig. Still the awful face, but at least no gagging.

"Well," said Chiaro, "Are you going to tell me how you got that or not?"

Edward started pacing to and fro in front of the long windows, bottle in hand, the full panels of sunlight only making his injured face look even worse. _ Bristly, like_ _a battle-scarred alley cat._ "I was sparring with the palace arms master and took a foot to the face," he said idly, almost absentmindedly, his tone implying that his thoughts were not on his injuries, but elsewhere--somewhere far off in the mental distance.

Chiaro began laughing so hard that he literally almost fell off his stool.

Then he said, gasping between laughs, "You let the Iron Maiden kick in you in the face?"

"The 'Iron Maiden'?"

"Vida, the palace arms master," Chiaro said in a low, fearful tone. "That's what everyone calls her."

"That would have been nice to know ahead of time."

"It's the metal spurs on the boot heels that does it, you know. Hence the name. . ."

"Oh, I know--I saw them _really_ close up."

"Then why the hell did you do it?"

"Because," said Edward, eyes glittering like candle flames: through slats of sun, then shadow, and back through sun again. _Stripes, like on an alley cat_. "I can't afford to be lazy and let my guard down. I need to learn to be a better fighter. And that woman is an alchemist, too. She knows things." The pacing abruptly stopped. "And she's responsible for training the emperor's private guard."

Chiaro froze, thoughtful. That sounded an awful lot like Edward was planning something, and from what he'd seen so far, Edward wasn't much for planning. . .

"You know what she told me?" began Edward, "She said--and I quote--'Your reach is lousy and you lack creativity and improvisation.' That's what she said to me."

"And?"

Edward folded his arms and looked thoughtful. "Well. . . she's probably right about my having a lousy reach--and no, I never would have admitted that when I was younger. But seeing her in action--it's given me a few ideas. . ."

_ Two alchemists were standing together on a clear, level field. Trees and bushes and flowers of exotic, fantastical colors bloomed wildly, verdant in the surrounding green that made up the landscape of the emperor's personal gardens._

_The woman Edward faced was tall, at least 5'10", and obviously not of Xingian descent. She had raven hair and her robes were a vivid scarlet and black, cinched with a wide, leather obi decorated with elaborate arrays. Her dress was slit high on each side and in brief glimpses, one could see the heavy, black lace-up boots that she wore, and the quick, altering flash of the wicked-looking sai that were tucked into the sides of each._

_"Attack me," she said._

_Edward clapped and transmuted his automail into a long, pointed sword--his standard mode of attack--and rushed the woman in front of him. Before he'd gotten within six feet of her, she brushed her hands together and lightly touched them to her belt, transmuting it into a long, leather whip. With one swift, elegant flick it was wrapped around his automail. She then gave it a vicious yank, propelling him forward, and the last thing he saw was her spinning around in a roundhouse kick, a heavy black boot aimed squarely for his face. . .  
_  
"She threw a bottle at my head once," admitted Chiaro.

Edward tried to raise an eyebrow, winced, then took another shot of whisky. "What for?"

"I begged her to let me paint her." Chiaro paused, remembering. "I may have been. . . inebriated at the time." It was the only accountable reason he could think of for his having gathered up the courage to approach her to begin with. "The bottle shattered right by my left ear. I'm pretty sure she missed on purpose."

"Why in the world did you ask to paint her? She's not what you would call. . .personable."

"Her right pupil is permanently dilated," the painter said in an almost dreamy, wistful fashion.

"Huh?"

"It makes her eyes appear to be two different colors: sea green and black. But, if you look closely, that's not it at all. It's the lack of symmetry that I find compelling--" and here Chiaro glanced down at Edward's automail hand "--I _wanted _to paint her."

Edward didn't comment; instead he drew up a stool and sat the bottle down on the table with a final, resounding _clunk. _Chiaro watched as he lifted a hand and touched the finely ground red ochre sitting in a little round earthenware pot in front of him. Normally, touching his private store of supplies would have sent him into a fury of shouting, but something in the young man's expression made him hold his tongue. He looked well and truly pained, a pain that went well beyond the nasty injury on his left cheek.

"I sent Al away."

The words came out so low, that Chiaro almost missed them. "What?"

"I had Doctor Wong put him on a cart, and take him out of Xing."

Chiaro was shocked, yet he forced his expression to remain completely neutral. He had spent hours upon hours in Edward's company, long enough to know that his world spun upon the axis of his brother's well-being. It was the reason for his current predicament. Edward's eyes were hard, and he didn't have to say it for Chiaro to know: _He would walk across corpses and wade through blood to make sure his brother was safe. _It was a simple, compulsive devotion--pure in origin, uncomplicated in its expression. Chiaro didn't understand it all.

He did, however, understand how much pain this was causing.

"But--why? And why are you still here?"

"Look out the window."

Chiaro got up and walked around his work table to the tall, open windows. He held onto the wooden slats of the shutters, leaned out, eyes scanning. By the granary that book-ended his open view to the river and the palace towers beyond, he could see (upon close, discreet observation) several figures clad in black robes and sinisterly painted masks. They were on the roof, by the mouth of the narrow alleyway, around the grain carts--numerous, lurking, their presence distant yet threateningly close, poses casual yet ominously imposing: the emperor's private guard of assassins. Chiaro felt his breath hitch, like a small rodent caught in the sights of a looming hawk--and he wasn't even the object of their hunt.

Chiaro turned from the window, his expression alarmed. "What the hell? When did this start?"

Edward's lips curved in a wry, unpleasant smirk. "Apparently, you're not the only one to have heard about Lady Rong's intent to kill me. So now I have my own private guard. . . for my protection, of course."

"Of course," repeated Chiaro, knowing full well that it wasn't for Edward's "protection." The emperor wanted to make sure that he wouldn't try and bolt, and Lady Rong's threats provided the perfect excuse for Edward to be followed. _So he is tightening the noose, thought Chiaro._ _It was only a matter of time. . ._

Chiaro watched Edward's expression--doleful but not quite defeated--as he sat slumped in front of his work table. "Do you know how long it's been since I've been away from Al like this?" His voice was rising, taking on an edge of hysteria. "But I didn't know what else to do! I didn't. . .I couldn't. . ."

"Let him remain to be used as a pawn against you," the painter finished for him. Edward glared, bristling with misdirected anger, but Chiaro just shook his head, speaking the truth that apparently Edward himself could not acknowledge. "No, you were right to send him away. You know what would have happened if he had stayed. He would have only been used against you."

"I don't know what to do," admitted Edward.

Chiaro had no answer for him. So he did what he always did in a stressful situation.

He grabbed the bottle of whisky and took a long, deep drink.

End Chapter 8.

_Oh man, that was hard. The muses were kind to me last week, but now they have apparently decided to kick me in the gut. This chapter was hard to write folks--there might have been a little alchemy involved, as I tore down and rebuilt things, so if it's a little disjointed--er, sorry._ _Oh, & the stolen quote for this chapter (apparently I'm a word-kleptomaniac) is, "No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed," courtesy of A.S. Byatt's "Possession."_ _The chapter title is from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," by T.S. Eliot--my favorite poem._


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Chiaroscuro

_chiaroscuro, n., definition:_ 1. _The technique of using light and shade in pictorial representation. 2. The arrangement of light and dark contrast, esp. to enhance the delineation of character and for general dramatic effect.__  
__  
__  
_Chiaro stood before Edward's portrait, his sure, practiced hand deftly filling in the inky, oily blackness of the darkened background. The artist had managed to reproduce the high, light-reflecting sheen of his automail arm to perfection, and above that, his face appeared to be imbued with an ethereal, inner light. His hair made for him a suitable halo ("Only God, my dear, could love you for yourself alone and not your yellow hair") and his eyes shone with an incandescent fire: a fierce, intense look that he took on whenever he was made to talk about a certain arrogant commanding officer. . .

_Chiaro held up his sketch pad, "How's this?"__  
__  
__ Edward leaned forward, squinting (a side effect, Chiaro was sure, of the bottle of whisky that they had been sharing, now sitting conspicuously empty on the table between them). "The eyes aren't quite right," said Edward, shaking his head. "More. . . almond-shaped?"__  
__  
__ Chiaro nodded drunkenly and took up his charcoal, revising the sketch. He held it up again, "And now?"__  
__  
__ Edward squinted again. "Getting closer. I don't know, can you make the smirk. . . smirkier?"__  
__  
__ Chiaro snickered and again drew on the sketchpad with his charcoal. After a moment of silence, the painter said, "Why don't you ask him for help? It's possible you could get a message to him somehow."__  
__  
__ A sad look crossed Edward's face and he shook his head. "No. I haven't seen Roy Mustang in over ten years and. . . I just can't see myself suddenly asking him for favors, not after so long. He did enough stuff for me, back in the day. I don't want to owe him anything else."__  
__  
__ "But. . .I thought perhaps the relationship went. . .deeper than that?"__  
__  
__ A wan smile decorated Edward's face. "No. . . it was all one-sided. I was sixteen and had a stupid crush. I'm pretty sure he never even knew I existed, except as another one of his 'dogs'."__  
__  
__ Chiaro's hand abruptly stopped.__  
__  
__ "What?" said Edward.__  
__  
__ "I think you're wrong."__  
__  
__ Now Edward snickered. "How can you say that? You've never even met the man. He was a pompous prick with a lot of ambition. His grand plans included the creation of his own 'mini-skirt army'."__  
__  
__ "That sounds like a melodramatic evasion," said Chiaro seriously. "You said that he always knew where you were and what you were doing. Maybe that was his way of looking out for you--also, it seems a little obsessive."__  
__  
__ Edward waved his hand dismissively. "He just liked to control everybody and everything around him."__  
__  
__ Chiaro smiled. "You say such bad things about him and yet--"__  
__  
__ "He just makes me crazy, that's all," said Edward, squirming, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. So much feeling. Chiaro watched, fascinated. It was like watching a prism--shards of beautiful crystal spinning, turning colors under the light.__  
__  
__ So much emotion frightened the painter.__  
__  
_Chiaro lowered his paint brush. The portrait was finished. Swirls of black, crimson, and gold swam across his vision. He couldn't believe he was tearing up at his own work. Or maybe it wasn't the picture, but the woeful, unseemly predicament which surrounded it. _Maybe it was the boy himself. _No, he wouldn't allow himself to think about it. He hadn't seen Edward in three days and he forced himself to not linger on what any of it might mean. It was not his place, and he needed to divorce himself from thinking that it was.

"_Such feelings should be cut away, amputated," thought the painter_. "_Better to feel nothing at all."__  
__  
_A heavy, forceful knock sounded at the door, and Chiaro's head jerked up--he knew the sound too well, metal on wood. "Enter," he called. He did not move to cover the painting, but instead stood stock still in front of it, listening as heavy footsteps made their way towards him.

"Holy shit." came Edward's voice from just over his shoulder. Utter silence. Then:

"Is that really me?"

Chiaro turned around slowly, taking in the expression on the boy's face. Edward was studying his own portrait, his look an odd marriage of fascination and complete bewilderment. _Truly, he does not see himself, thought Chiaro. _Then the painter said, "I still think you are wrong about Roy Mustang, and I will wager an entire crate of that Amestrian whisky on it." Edward's eyes flicked toward the painter; there was something haunted in them, something that had been temporarily pushed back by the colorful distraction of his portrait.

"What's wrong?" said Chiaro, alarmed.

Edward opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then began again: "I had dinner with the emperor tonight. Alone. In his private study."

Chiaro remained silent, his responding nod urging him to continue. . .

_Wall sconces covered in amber mica cast the room in a glowing, golden haze--lighting that was all too soft, and too intimate. Edward sat, alone, on an antique carved chair at a small table in the emperor's private study. The chair was turned away from the table--it faced, instead, the wall of paintings known to one and all as the emperor's "private cabinet._" _In the midst of all the paintings, in the third spot from the left, was a large, empty space. Edward knew that his own portrait would be hung there._ _In his mind's eye, the image of a monarch butterfly appeared, and was promptly speared by a needle and impaled on a piece of faded parchment._ . .

_A door creaked open to his left, and Edward did not need to turn his head to know that Emperor Lee was there. The whisper of the man's dark, luxurious robes on the plush carpet was far too loud--deafening within the still, anticipatory silence of the small room._ _Eventually, Edward was forced to acknowledge the man's presence. "Good evening, emperor," he said, his voice inflectionless as he turned to greet him._

_"And to you, Edward," The emperor stopped before the empty space on the wall_, _a serene and deceptively gentle smile adorning his heavily scarred face. "Chiaro is to deliver your portrait here tomorrow." His hand reached out and touched the blank wall. _"_I will most likely hang it here, myself. For I do not care to have too many hands touch my most precious possessions." His hand fell away from the wall.__  
__  
__ "Which possession are you referring to?"__  
__  
__ "Why, whatever do you mean, Edward?" The emperor spun away from the wall and walked over to stand by his chair. Edward dropped his shaking hands into his lap. He was no good at word games--not the kind the emperor seemed to take so much pleasure in, anyhow--that was more Mustang's style, not his. He could feel the emperor's eager eyes watching him, and it took everything he had to not just simply jump up and run from the room.__  
__  
__ Luckily, posing for Chiaro's portrait had made him a lot better at remaining still.__  
__  
__ "I'm talking about myself." Edward was pleased to hear the force of anger in his voice--better that than fear. He glared at the emperor, his golden eyes daring him to deny it. His hands, no longer shaking, clenched into fists.__  
__  
__ The emperor took the seat to Edward's right and his eyes regarded him coolly. Edward watched--with apprehension--as that coolness began to slowly melt away, turning the emperor's look into something warmer, more complex. Something that was even harder for Edward to comprehend.__  
__  
__ The emperor's eyes were begging.__  
__  
__ Edward would have liked to believe that he was mistaken, but he knew he was not. This was not the face he'd been expecting--he'd expected the face of a tyrant, of an appallingly violent man, an egotistical maniac hell-bent on getting whatever it was he wanted. He'd seen and faced any number of those faces, over the years, again and again, many times over. No, what he saw in the emperor's eyes was a single phrase, telegraphed to him over and over, as clear and bright as a sunny day:__  
__  
__ Love me, love me, love me. . .__  
__  
__ The emperor reached out suddenly, grabbing hold of Edward's left hand. It might as well been a cobra, for all the response that Edward showed it. He could not keep the pity, and its companion, revulsion, from showing raw and true on his own face. He hated this! He actually felt himself pitying this man and he hated it! Better to be forced into a corner and made to fight than face down this unwanted parody of a. . .What? Courtship? A juvenile crush? Lover's confession? The soft pleading in the emperor's eyes was too much to bear; he could not be the focus of so much devotion, anticipation. He couldn't. . .__  
__  
__ "Edward. . ."__  
__  
__ "No!" and he was up and out of the chair before he knew it, his body language screaming with all its silent might the things it did not want. He was sorry this man had probably always been this unlovely, this unloved, but he would not yield to another's delusional wishes. Capitulation was not an option.__  
__  
__ "Edward. . ."__  
__  
__ That pleading tone had all the force of a knife, making him wince as if under a blow. "Your highness," he began, his voice cold, probably cruel, "I don't know what it is you think is happening here, but what I want--I want--is to go home to Amestris and my brother. Please?" Now it was his turn to plead, to beg.__  
__  
__ He watched the emperor's expression fall, collapse in on itself, then rise, becoming cross and aloof, his old mask firmly in place. "I do not give you leave to pass over the border," he stated coldly, his eyes cutting away, shining with a definite wetness. Then:__  
__  
__ "Get out!"__  
__  
__ Edward backed away, toward the door. He felt sick to his stomach, worse for wear in spirit, perhaps more so than after any physical battle. He was glad he was told to go. And yet the coldness of the tone in which the order was delivered made him fear something more. . .__  
__  
_"You can't stay here!" Chiaro said. "Something must be done. . .anything."

"You think I don't know that?" replied Edward, "But what am I supposed to do? I still have half the emperor's private guard following me." He dropped heavily onto a stool in front of his portrait. In the full length mirror across the way, Chiaro watched the doubled images of both Edwards: the one in the portrait fiery and sure, the other defeated and hopeless. Then he saw his own hand reach out, lightly touching the real Edward's shoulder. He watched the image in the mirror and then--

An idea began to take shape in his head, congealing and coming together in a sudden mad spurt of inspiration. Chiaro froze, thinking. Then he said: "Do you remember that story you told me, about how you disguised you and your brother, and you took a train into the desert?"

"Yey, what about it?"

"You said you changed your hair color with alchemy?"

Edward said nothing, merely looked at the painter with questioning eyes. Chiaro wasn't looking at him. He was looking at the mirror, and he watched as the artist raised a hand to his pointed goatee, touching it with paint-splattered fingers, contemplating.

"It's going to have to come off," Chiaro murmured.

"What are you talking about?" said Edward, frowning.

A determined look had come over the artist's face. "We switch. You use your alchemy and switch our hair colors, I shave off this beard, we switch clothes--"

"Are you crazy?!"

"No, I'm not!" Chiaro grabbed Edward's arm, an intensity overtaking his features that the alchemist had never seen on the man before, save before the challenge of a half-finished canvas. "We are about the same height and build, we both have long hair; if you switch us, and we make the illusion real enough--"

Edward was shaking his head, "This is crazy talk!"

"No, it's not," countered Chiaro. "It will _work_! From as far off as the granary, they'll never be able to tell. I've done nothing but study you for weeks, Edward. I can move like you, make it real enough. If I head off in one direction, and you, dressed as me, head off in another direction. It will buy you enough time to escape."

Chiaro was in a frenzy of movement: he darted away to a large corner closet and started pulling out various articles of clothing. Then he stood inside it, on tip-toe, reaching into the very back. When he pulled out his hand, it was filled with a stack of Xingian bills (the first half of his commission for the portrait). He brought the lot back to Edward.

"Here, take this," said the painter, forcing the money into Edward's flesh hand. Go down past the farmer's market to a stone building with a thatched roof--there is a red sign outside--and ask for Jing. He supplies me with various things that are. . .hard to come by. Give him this money and ask him to provide you with papers for the border. . ."

Edward was shaking his head violently. "No, no, no. . .I can't. . .I can't let you do this." Gold eyes bore into black ones. "Eventually, they will catch you and. . .and. . ."

"Edward let me do this for you."

"No!"

"Edward, where is your 'I'?"

"What?"

"You always fight and struggle and sacrifice, for everyone else--your brother especially--yet what about yourself? What has Edward Elric ever done for Edward Elric? Nothing, as far as I can tell. Now, I want to do this, and we're going to do it--now--tonight. Unlike you, I am a very selfish man: I live alone, and care for no one, and spend all my time on my own petty vices. Let me do this one generous thing--just the one. And let me deal with the repercussions."

Chiaro knelt before him, eyes imploring. Edward's shoulders sagged, the beginning of his defeat. "Alright. . ." he said, taking the proffered robes and money. "I'll do it, but. . ."

Chiaro smiled reassuringly. There was nothing to say after that 'but'--because the cross of remorse, he knew, was a hard and heavy burden to bear. He knew this, as surely as he knew he would be feeling it himself, soon enough. He knew there would be nothing but pain waiting for him on the other side of this night.

He knew he was going to regret this.

End Chapter 9.

_I'd like to send out a super, ultra, mega-thanks to all of those who have read and commented on this story so far. I am now officially half way through, and I am very eager to begin the second half--and hopefully, it will feel more like soaring downhill, than trudging upwards. I'd also like to send out a special shout-out to UP2L8, who always manages to comment faithfully on every single chapter_. _As I said before, "So shines a good deed in a weary world.":)_


	10. Chapter 10

_And now, back to Roy. . ._

Chapter 10: Resolve

Shadows slithered across the stucco walls of Chiaro's studio: the fire in the grate had burned low, drained, turning the whole room into a swaying, shifting kaleidoscope of light and dark.

Roy Mustang sat, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands steepled together beneath his lips in careful contemplation. The artist Chiaro sat, legs tucked underneath him, on the square ottoman across from him--the same piece of furniture from the painting---he was now silent, his retelling of all the things that had happened to Ed in Xing finished, complete.

So Edward had escaped.

Mustang let out a long, drawn-out sigh of relief. The feeling overwhelmed him, so much so that he marveled at the sheer force of it. How long had he been pushing his own emotions down? He had been doing it on a day-to-day basis for so long, for so many years now, that he could no longer pinpoint when all feeling had simply stopped, vanished, replaced with a thread-bare illusion of human emotion that touched not his core, not the man inside. He wanted his feelings back; he wanted to _want_ again. From the moment he had seen that painting of Edward, he had _felt_ things, felt his own desire like a lightning strike, swift and blinding: and it was not an emotion he was willing to part from again.

Mustang watched the painter seated in front him, his missing left hand casually concealed by the folds of his sleeve. "So that was because you helped Edward escape?"

The painter merely shrugged. "It was a small sacrifice."

"That can't be true; it had to have been painful."

Chiaro shrugged again. "It was not nearly as painful as how much, how _hard _I had to beg for them to not take the right. . _.that_ would have been a _large _sacrifice."

Mustang nodded in understanding. "So during the time you spent talking with Edward. . . he told you. . .about me. . .and what he felt?"

Chiaro's laughter was like music in the fading light. "Of all the things I just told you, the thing you fixate on is a crush. Why, that's marvelous--the fuhrer of Amestris is sitting here, in my studio, blushing like a school boy. Well, I do believe I am owed a crate of Amestrian whisky." The artist was smiling triumphantly.

Mustang smiled in return, his former power to charm returning. "I'll give you as many crates as you want." he said, then frowned, remembering:

"But you don't know where Edward went?"

The artist's expression crumpled, "No, I told him not to tell me--having that information would have been dangerous, you understand. It would not have been sound logic to reveal such a thing."

Mustang nodded, bowing his head, crestfallen. Edward could be anywhere by now--anywhere. Even with Mustang's own vast network of contacts and spies, how was he supposed to find him--especially when he was in hiding and obviously did not want to be found? How was he to do it?

_"Edward. . .where are you?" the long buried voice in his mind repeated. _Then, from the depths, there emerged a memory, atomized from the smoke of a long ago--and previously forgotten--day. . .

_Colonel Roy Mustang opened the door which lead to the outer offices belonging to his subordinates, his meeting with Brigadier General Hakuro finished. His entrance caused a small flurry of activity among the staff: Havoc dropped his obviously propped up feet from the desk to the floor, Breda dumped the jelly doughnut that he'd been holding into his desk drawer, and Fuery shoved Black Hayate's bag of dog snacks beneath his desk with his foot. Hawkeye was the only one, as usual, hard at work: her typewriter keys clicked smartly, pausing in their progress only to acknowledge Mustang's return with a crisp salute of "Good afternoon, Colonel."_

_Then: "Fullmetal's been waiting for you in your office. He's been in there for about an hour."_

_Mustang paused. It was customary for Edward to put off his reports to the very last minute; his procrastination was legendary. And he'd been waiting in there for an hour? That was impossible, he thought, the kid couldn't sit still that long._

_As Mustang opened then closed the door to his office, the mystery was suddenly made clear. Edward was sprawled across one of Mustang's couches, snoring lightly, an open alchemy book folded over his face like a sleep mask. The sound of the door was not enough to wake him. Mustang found himself treading the carpet with light steps--why, he wasn't sure--and he walked over to the couch where Edward was dozing._

_Mustang stood over the boy, a small smile slowly forming on his face. It wasn't often that he was given the opportunity to study Edward this closely unobserved, and his eyes raked across the boy's lithe, leather clad frame, the sight filling him with a deep, burgeoning hunger. An image appeared in his mind: his own hand reaching out, lifting the book from Ed's face, himself leaning over, lips meeting, and maybe, maybe. . ._

_Mustang lowered his treacherous, reaching hand. "You really are a bastard," he chided himself. And suddenly he found himself backing away, his head clanging with the warning bells of restraint; his inner voice reproached him, reminding him, giving every possible reason why reaching out to Edward would be wrong, wrong, wrong. Mustang was ashamed of his own feelings, and he allowed that shame to chase him, like an avenging ghost, back around to the cold, hard barrier and safety of his desk. He slumped forward, like a man possessed, rubbing his face with both hands, willing away all those thoughts, all those feelings, of an illicit--and utterly compelling--nature. . ._

The memory faded, vaporized into the ether. Yet another one of those 'what if' moments that Mustang enjoyed torturing himself with, moments picked over, like old wounds, never healed, never allowed to rest, revised, reinvented, twisted into different outcomes. His own memory served as the perfect torture cell for all his repressed emotions, and every detail of every remembered scene was used, like a knife, against the raw shell of his tattered psyche. He could see himself, even now, years down the road, going over this moment now--regretting it, changing it, shifting it into another self-manipulated recreation. The moment that he almost--almost--had Edward, and lost him--again. He could see himself, with utter clarity, picking up the portrait, returning to his car, heading home to Amestris, walking into his library, and taking the painting, stuffing it into his safe: buried, never to be taken out, never to be looked at again, except in the darkest and cruelest moments of his own self-loathing. He would sit, glass of scotch in hand, and replay over in his mind again, again, what should have been different: a never ending loop of torture.

He might as well bury his own heart in the safe along with the portrait.

A cold, determined look came across Mustang's face--a look usually checked, then revealed, just before the snap of his gloves. He would not give up yet. He stood from the couch and reached for the portrait. Yes, he would return to Amestris, and he would use every resource, every means, every lead available to try and find him. He would not let this end--as before--in nothingness, a blank canvas where he hadn't bothered to act, to even _try_. Not this time.

"Wait," said the painter.

Mustang paused, one hand on the doorknob, the other clasping the portrait. He turned back to the artist, who was still sitting on the low ottoman--Chiaro was frowning, a hard, contemplative look covering his face. The he said:

"It's sinking."

Mustang's fine, black eyebrows knit together. "What?"

"The place where Edward was going--before I hissed at him to not tell me--he said it was sinking. A sinking city." Chiaro looked up at Mustang. "Does it. . .does it mean anything?"

Mustang froze. Then slowly, his eyes lit up with understanding. His lips crooked up in a wry smile: calculating, formidable, an air of renewed vigor surrounding him, ringing him like a burning halo. He knew where he would go next:

Aquroya.

End Chapter 10.

_Er, sorry--not much happens in this chapter. It's really just a bridge to the next part of the story. Which I'm really excited about writing, by the way. You have no idea. And if time and the muses are good to me, I'll get it out before Turkey Day._ _ Cross your fingers._:)


	11. Chapter 11

_Hi folks! I've turned Aquroya into my own personal Venice (which I think it was meant to mirror anyway), so all the extraneous terminology actually applies to the real thing, including the ring ceremony, etc.._

Chapter 11: Promises on the Water

Aquroya. The city of water. It nestled like a bright, shining jewel on a softly shimmering palette of blue velvet. Aquroya was the Lady of the Water: a city of numerous, unfathomable charms which lured and bedazzled tourists from all over Amestris. She reigned, gaudy yet stubbornly beautiful, tenacious, like a woman past her prime, but who refused to quit. Even as she slipped, slowly, on the landscape of decay and steadily creeping ruin that infected the very calli and canals of her own well-trod streets. Aquroya was sinking, both literally and figuratively. The water, the thing that Aquroya was most obviously known for, was dragging her, like the slow, insidious press of disease, to the bottom of the lake.

Aquroya was known as the Sinking City.

Roy Mustang came to Aquroya, only accompanied by two lieutenants, to the fuhrer's residence on the main piazza near the offices of state. The fuhrer's house in Aquroya was a grand, three story palazzo: a dazzling structure, large, but like the rest of the city, worn under the foundations and infiltrated with a stealthy, creeping decay. It did not matter, though. The luxuries of home and hearth--glittering chandeliers, elaborate candelabra, sumptuous well-laid tables, were not the reason for the fuhrer's visit. He had but one objective in mind: to find the Fullmetal Alchemist.

As it happened--for good or ill--Aquroya was currently in the throes of high carnivale. Mustang had arrived during the Feast of Ascension: an elaborate, drawn-out festival that took place every year. Every year, on the same day, the mayor of the city and his council members would take their lavishly painted and decorated barges to the deepest, center part of the lake and there, in grand ceremony, the mayor would cast a gold ring into its depths: a symbolic union of marriage between the city and the water. It did not matter that the union was a treacherous one--the water a murderous, slowly poisoning fiend. The ceremony and the festival still continued on, unchanged, year after year, its frenzy and blazing spectacles attracting Amestrian tourists from all over.

For two days now, Roy Mustang had waited patiently within the corroded walls of his residence, meeting with and talking with--albeit discreetly--a whole host of various contacts, from high officials on down to the Sinking City's shadier and more questionable inhabitants. On the third day, he slipped away from his house, a lone, unnoticed shadow in the early in the evening, the sun at his back turning a blurry, tangy orange as it sunk closer to the horizon line of the water. He was in street clothes; dark-colored slacks paired with a white button down shirt and his great black overcoat. He did not wish to be recognized. And as revelers passed by him in the cobbled stone piazza--faces covered with plumed, glittering masks, wild, like fantastical animals, their shrieks of laughter trailing behind them, a simple thought occurred to him. He walked through the piazza and over to the many vendor's stalls, and there he purchased a simple black mask etched in silver, and slipped it over his face. Ah, blessed anonymity.

He continued on, away from the towering buildings of the broglio, drifting down by the canals, walking in the vague direction of the great Arch Bridge and under it, the Grand Canal. People flooded the streets everywhere: musicians, street performers, vendors, clusters upon clusters of people. Mustang swore under his breath. How was he to find Edward in the midst of such an ungodly crush of people? He didn't even know where to start. He didn't even know if Edward was still--or had been--in the city. This was complete and utter madness. And yet, here he was, and here he pressed on.

As the sun sank further below the horizon, gas lamps lining the streets were brought to life with a hazy, haloed glow and torches were set alight down by the canals. Everywhere there was a sense of frivolity, of rash, barely contained frenzy. The air was alive with a low, simmering seduction. Men and women alike, masked or unmasked, smiled salaciously at Roy in frank, open invitation. He ignored them all and continued on, his own masked face searching, searching, looking for Edward. Edward, who was not lost, not gone, not beyond reach--not yet, he reminded himself. He would tear this whole city apart with his bare hands if it meant reaching his goal.

Mustang walked along the banks of the Grand Canal, the water alive, shimmering and swaying under the flickering light cast by the torches. Gondolas of various shapes and sizes flooded the waters, and sounds of tinkling laughter and string music carried across the canal depths all way to the shore. Somewhere in the distance a woman was singing, a sweet soprano sound that bounced and echoed in the close confines of the water. Mustang started up the slope that lead to the Great Arch Bridge, his eyes sweeping over boat after boat, gliding or docked, that swayed into his view. And then something particular caught his eye--a flash of brilliance, a shine of hope--and he found himself hurrying back down to the docks by the base of the bridge.

He was moving against a throng of people, and he had to push his way through into the other direction. _That gondola just under the bridge_ _there, he thought, roped and swaying near the shore_--something: a familiar, reflective light, last seen by him only through the illusion, the alchemy of paint. He felt his pulse quicken as he moved nearer. That light beckoned him, leading him to the water.

Around him was a cacophony of sound: musical instruments and shouting and the pounding of hurried feet. And yet, as he approached the gondola, it was as if everything went dead silent. Hanging over the side of the boat, almost unnoticeable, was the limp curve of an automail hand. He would have known it anywhere: it was so completely _his_, so much a part of Edward; it was undeniable and unignorable. Mustang slowed, softening his approach, and then--

And then. . .

Mustang saw, lying in the bottom of the boat, Edward, sprawled, fast asleep, a book folded over his face, just like that moment in his office so very long ago. If it had not been for the automail hand hanging carelessly over the side, he would have missed him completely. Mustang thought suddenly that he'd never loved anything more at this moment--had in fact never been so grateful for--than the glorious perfection of that light-reflecting steel.

Mustang smiled in relief and crept closer to the side of the gondola. The past be damned, he thought, remembering that tortured moment from long ago. This time it was different. _He_ was different. It was going to be different. By God, nothing would stay his hand this time! So he reached for the book, his mind ignoring the internal clang of a different kind of warning bell.

There was the clap and flash of alchemy and suddenly--too suddenly--Mustang found himself slammed into the bottom of the boat, a wire noose wrapped around his neck, choking. A hard, metal knee dug into his spine. His face scrapped the wooden flooring; his fingers clawed at the wire. Edward gave the noose another vicious yank and Mustang's vision blazed into black dots. Everything had happened differently alright, but it was not what he had foreseen.

"Edward. . ."

His voice came out in a guttural rasp, nearly inaudible. Above him there was a sudden stillness; and yet the noose remained painfully taught. "Ed. . ." he managed to choke out, his fingers digging, seeking purchase.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the noose was loosened and slipped away. The weight on his back lifted. He coughed, sputtered, turning. Then he reached up, and tore away the mask he'd been wearing, its presence long since forgotten.

Edward's eyes were wide with shock, "Mustang?!"

Mustang struggled up into a sitting position, face blotched red and throat retching. Edward stumbled back a pace, the gondola rocking wildly under both of their movements. "What the hell are you doing here?" Edward demanded, his voice laced with obvious confusion.

Mustang sucked in air in great, heaving gulps. "I've been. . .looking. . .for you."

Edward's look was incredulous. Then Mustang stammered out, "In Xing. . .I saw. . .your painting."

"What?" A look of complete disbelief covered his features. Mustang stood up, swaying along with the slowly settling boat, staring hard at the young man in front of him. And Edward, as usual, looked angry.

The silence stretched, sliding into the quicksand of discomfort. Edward turned and hopped out of the gondola, and Mustang followed, the words pouring out of him at a breakneck pace:

"I went to Xing, to the emperor's palace, and I saw your portrait there. Then I went to the house of the artist, Chiaro Scuro, and he told me. . . he told me. . . everything."

Without noticing, Mustang had followed Edward into one of the long, narrow calli, a small alleyway that was lined on either side by the tall, imposing white-washed walls of the more richer palazzos. Edward came to a sudden halt and whirled, getting into Roy's face. "That was really fucking stupid what you did back there! You know I could've killed you right?" His gold eyes blazed, crackling, with a barely contained rage. Mustang thought it was the most beautiful sight he'd seen in years. . .

They glared at one another--the moment lengthening, strained, protracted--until Edward turned and abruptly started off again, with Roy following close behind.

"Edward, stop."

"Why are you here?"

"Don't you know?"

"Do I?"

"Edward, I said that Chiaro told me everything. . . _everything_." The word crashed and hung in the air with its all-encompassing and implied meaning. Edward slid to a stop, turned, angry again, explosive. "Why, that officious little prick--"

The words were never finished. Mustang had grabbed him, with both hands, and their lips met in deep, hungry impact. Edward staggered back under the force of it, his back hitting the alley wall, the air sucked out of his lungs. Mustang was rewarded with a low, heady moan: it was primal, it was animal, it was heaven. It was the shattering of years. The kiss went on, and Mustang's hands tore at Edward's hair, holding him in place, an act from a residual fear that fate--with its all too cruel and capricious sense of whimsy-- would try, with its crafty hands, to take what was rightfully his away from him again.

Edward's hands were shoving at him, pushing, the kiss suddenly broken. Mistaking his meaning, Mustang clung on, not realizing the gravity of the moment until Edward himself yelled, "Look out!" and there was a pinging sound next to his ear: the ominous clattering of a knife that had just missed its mark. Mustang was dumbfounded, frozen into place. He watched, still wide-eyed and disbelieving as Edward, swearing, was off and running after a black-clad, masked assailant who was swiftly retreating down the narrow calle.

Mustang quickly returned to his senses, and he ran after Edward, who had already caught up with the assassin. Mustang sucked in his breath as he realized that the mask was not Aquroyan, but painted in the black and red design of Xing. An ugly realization began to dawn, landing with the light and subtle shape of black-winged butteries: he had read the situation wrong. He had miscalculated. In his mad, down hill rush to find Edward he had not stopped to think about the fact that he was not the only one looking for him. And he had inadvertently lead that other person here, right to him.

There was a clap and the accompanying blue shimmering light of alchemy being performed as Edward--lethally enraged, but completely and dangerously in control--went in for a low sweep, taking out the assassin's legs. There was a scream and spurt of blood as Edward used his alchemy to transmute the metal harnesses on his boots into a razor sharp pair of spurs, effectively ham-stringing the attacker. A second transmutation and his automail was transformed into a knife, metal flashing as it arced downward towards the assassin with deadly intent.

Mustang came to a halt by the now still body of their attacker. Edward turned to face him, the wildness not quite gone from his expression, and their eyes met in a silent, desperate understanding. Mustang opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Edward, who grabbed his arm and said, "Come on." His eyes were trained on the high walls of the surrounding palazzos and his body language telegraphed danger. Mustang allowed himself to be pulled along by the younger man, a growing guilt taking up root and choking him into an obedient, silent acquiescence. _So stupid, he mentally berated himself, to not have considered every possibility, every foreseeable outcome, every trap and hitch_. He had obviously gone soft, had been thrown off his mental game ever since returning from Xing. And now, here with Edward, they were both caught up in the middle of a dangerous situation.

They exited the mouth of the calle, with Edward stopping just long enough to transmute the cobblestones from the street into a suitable barrier to cover the entrance. Then Edward broke into a sprint and Mustang was forced to keep pace with him; the exertion reminding him, with its own wry sense of irony, the gulf of their age difference. Edward reached the canal and he leapt into the waiting gondola, landing, hardly swaying, with an unearthly animal grace. Mustang clambered in after him and Edward cut the line and shoved them away from the dock, setting them adrift on the water. Edward walked to the head of the boat and took up the gondolier's pole, pushing them farther down the waterway. All around them, torches danced, and music played, and laughter rang out, while Mustang, silent and still, flailed around in a conflicting quagmire of misery and elation.

Mustang's mind was racing. He was the master strategist; he was the one who had gotten Edward into this mess, so--how to fix it? His brain ran through various options, considering and discarding, racing, thrashing through a labyrinth of infinite possibilities. Mustang paused and raised his eyes to the young man standing--so strong, determined, so sure--at the head of the boat. The torchlight played lovingly over the gold of Edward's hair, the flickering brightness cast swaying, shifting shadows over the grim, set look of his face. _Like an avenging angel, he thought. _Mustang was certain of one thing, however: that he would not be parted from Edward again, assassins or no assassins, crazed emperors or no crazed emperors. The guilt and misery that had begun to take root so recently in his heart was effectively cut away, slashed to ribbons by the memory of one long, drawn out kiss. Mustang felt a smile slide over his face, both warm and sad, and as it did, a strange idea began to take shape in his consciousness, an idea that pulled on him, with both equal amounts of triumph and defeat. Defeat, he pushed away into the distance, and he lingered, like a starving man being given his first good dinner, on the parts that would mean triumph. Suddenly he said:

"I'm sorry."

Edward turned to look at him, silent, the wind from the water whipping the loosed strands from his braid into a halo of gold. He shrugged. "Don't worry about; we'll think of something."

"I have thought of something," said Mustang and he moved, settling himself just inside the darkened mouth of the gondola's covering felze. He steepled his fingers together and looked pointedly at Edward. His expression was determined.

A half-smile covered Edward's face. "Let me guess. This 'something' is dangerous and stupid and will probably get us both killed?"

"Maybe." No laughter, no creeping smirk--Mustang's response was final, flat, serious.

Edward froze, then nodded once, in silent agreement. Their gondola drifted by a fantastically decorated barge, and the silence was suddenly filled with shrieks of echoing laughter and the sounds of light, tinkling music. Somewhere on board, someone was giving a serenade. The water erupted with sounds of splashing, as revelers threw their cups overboard, into the depths. Mustang watched Edward's face break into the beginnings of a smile. "They're happy," he commented.

"I'm happy, too," responded Mustang. Across the short distance, their eyes met. Mustang was suddenly made hyper-aware of their small, enclosed space, the surrounding darkness, the distant sounds of celebration that now seemed so very far, far away. All thoughts of his plans, of possible failure, seemed far flung as well, and all he could think of now was that he was here, alone with Edward--after such an intractable period of longing and mourning-- he was here, and heaven was just as close as his arms. He could also see those same thoughts mirrored within gilded eyes, eyes that were darkening, narrowing with a corresponding hunger, and in an instant, the pole was flung to the bottom of the boat with a loud clatter and Edward was on him, like an assassin, but with a different intent, backing him into the darkened felze of the gondola. . .

End Chapter 11.

_Okay, so this is where the smut would be, if there was any smut. But I'm going to stick to my "T" rating and play nice . . this time._


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: A Martyr for My Love for You

The high, round moon gleamed mother-of-pearl over the canals and waterways, its reflection shattered into a thousand pieces across the waves, sparkling and indistinct. The clock tower near the broglio struck one, the sound dark and low like a church bell, the water creating a natural, bouncing echo. The city of Aquroya had finally started to wind down, and carnivale was coming to a close, and silence mostly greeted the single candles that had been lit and placed in each of the darkened palazzo windows. Here and there came the distant strumming sounds of vagabond troupes of musicians and a few hardy, steadfast revelers, but these sounds were small and distant, redolent of worshipers calming down and coming quietly to mass.

The fuhrer's residence on the great piazza was dark and quiet as well, its lit candles flickering solemnly in its numerous windows. Three stories high and imposing, it stood, a bulky, flaking sentinel along the Grand Canal. On the third floor, high above, was a small balcony, with a sweeping, panoramic view of the piazza below. On this balcony stood a darkened figure, still as death, a shadow forged before the double doors which led into the third floor landing.

A second, darkened figure was currently making its way across the concave dome that covered the balcony--its progress stealthy, graceful, and deliberate. A black cat creeping. Without noise or warning it leapt down onto the balcony and plunged a serrated blade into the unmoving, waiting figure standing on the balcony. The figure toppled and fell with ease: too much ease, in fact, and the assassin was suddenly wary, but not quick enough. Another figure, also dressed in black, materialized from the inky recesses of the adjoining alcove and with a single roundhouse kick, the assassin's throat was neatly slashed and he fell, silent, caught by the elbow and deftly lowered to the now-bloodstained floor without a sound.

_One down, thought Edward._

Edward drew back, his black clad form melding into the shadows of the balcony's alcove, and he stood, unmoving and barely breathing, like a spider in a web, waiting. It was too bad that the dummy he'd set up had managed to entrap only one of the assassins, but so be it. He could improvise if he had to; he'd learned a lot of new tricks from the Iron Maiden, and he intended to put them to good use.

_"You're holding back," said Vida, the Xingian palace arms master, "Where is your killer instinct?"_

_A slash of his automail blade, and the Maiden parried with one of her sai, the prongs catching the metal and throwing him off balance. He stumbled, breath caught in throat, and he waited with tingling nerves for the pain of an oncoming blow. None came. Edward regained his balance and turned to find Vida standing perfectly still, regarding him, her favored whip in one hand, her sai in the other. For a single moment, it seemed a rare shadow of empathy might have crossed her cold, mis-matched eyes. It was there and gone. "My dear alchemist, it's foolish of you to rely on that single weapon. What would you do if you had more than one opponent? With that blade and your reach it would never be enough--do you not understand? Here, stand for a moment and watch." Edward glared as she called a pair of palace guards over, ordering both of them to attack her from either side at the same time. . ._

The blood on the balcony floor gleamed oily and black, glinting in the darkness like an evil rorschach. The body lay just inside the doorway, out of sight. The sheer curtains covering the alcove fluttered, high and ominous, caught in a sudden burst of wind, causing Edward to tense and hold his breath. Nothing. He relaxed and waited. Nothing but silence greeted his straining ears. If the fight didn't kill him, then the waiting surely would. He found himself lightly and impatiently shifting from foot to foot, his body alive with anticipation, agitation. If he had to admit it to himself, he'd been spoiling for a fight ever since Xing. Even fights with incalculable odds like this one; his body verily hummed with the energy, the need of it. _C'mon, he thought, and let's get this over and done with._ _Just what are you waiting for?_

In answer, two more masked figures dropped down from the dome on either side of the balcony, serrated knives in hand, their movements dead silent as they advanced into the alcove. Edward backed onto the third floor landing, equally silent, the only sound a single, menacing clap as he transmuted the leather and metal of his biker's jacket. One whip and one sai: just what the lady ordered. The figures halted, and the moment strained, tensed, until the crash and shatter of breaking glass signaled the entry of another assassin from the opposite side of the hallway. _Shit_. Edward sensed movement from behind and without waiting he flicked the whip out at the assassin in front of him, caught his throat, and pulled him to him, deftly sliding out of the way as he did so. There was a hiss of breath, loud as a wail under the quiet light of the moon, as the figure found himself impaled on the hallway attacker's advancing, arcing blade. In quick succession, Edward clocked the hallway attacker on the back of the head with his automail, while flinging the sai at the second one from the balcony. It struck home and the assassin crumpled to the ground.

_Four down, thought Edward._

"Watch out!"

There was a recognizable snap and the familiar _whoosh _of crackling flame as another attacker from the broken window was set alight: he screamed and tumbled along the hallway walls blindly, finally pitching himself down the stairs that led to the second floor landing. At the head of the stairs appeared Mustang, still in street clothes but with ignition cloth gloves on, his eyebrow arched, expression pleased, smug even. He watched the attacker fall, idly, then turned to Edward, "Falling asleep on the job already?"

Edward huffed. "How nice of you to finally join me--fashionably late as ever." Edward walked over to the fallen assassin with the sai sticking out of him--his appearance suggesting a dark and motionless voodoo doll--and he pried the weapon free, his hands making a sweeping gesture. "In case you haven't noticed, _old man_, the score is currently four to one. Where have you been?"

"Making sure everything's ready down below."

Edward tensed and nodded curtly, his ire from Mustang's late entrance swallowed up by the knowledge of everything that was still left to do. _And we still don't know how many assassins are waiting, he thought. _An uneasy, fear-fueled feeling curled down in the pit of his stomach, taking up residence like an unwanted parasite. Light flickered, orange and gold, from the mouth of the second floor landing, and Edward realized that the fallen assassin had set the curtains on fire, and it had started to creep up, up the painted stucco walls. He looked to Mustang, eyes questioning. Mustang just shook his head.

"Leave it."

There was a second crash from below and the very obvious sound of broken glass, and Edward and Mustang headed down the stairs, dodging flames as they went. On the second floor, another window shattered inward, catching Edward unawares as he attempted to move past it, raining shards of glass down on him like sparkling jewels, cutting, creating pinpoints of red on his skin as another attacker hauled him down to the floor. The two of them rolled in a dark parody of love, Edward pushing, trying to hold the assassin off, his metal fingers digging in as he tried to get the attacker to release his throat. Another audible snap and this assassin too was set on fire, the flames dancing mere inches from Edward's face as he just barely managed to roll away from the conflagration. He got on his hands and knees.

"What the hell, Mustang! Watch it with those sparks, will you!"

"Don't be such a baby," replied Mustang. "I had it perfectly under control." Mustang sounded as confident as ever, but there was a doubtful look on his face, suggesting that, for a brief moment, he had not been as in control as he appeared. _And am I the cause of that? thought Edward. _Edward stared at Mustang, and their eyes caught and held. Mustang reached out to Edward, pulling him to his feet, his touch gentle in a way he was still unused to. Edward thought back to earlier that evening, to the dim, enclosed space of the gondola's felze, and he remembered Mustang's touch the way it had been then: covetous, hungry, and filled with a burning, arcane knowledge. Edward immediately pushed that memory away, setting it adrift to the back of his subconscious, knowing that if he didn't, then he would never be able to focus on the task at hand: namely that of keeping the both of them alive.

Again, that uneasy feeling returned as Edward realized that the majority of the second floor was now engulfed in flames. Smoke chased them, like an angry, fire-breathing dragon down to the first floor. More flame here, and Edward thought, _What the hell have we done? _Above, a huge, Aquroyan, wrought-iron chandelier swayed and lurched, the sound ominous and grating in the crackling quiet. Edward slid to a stop at the head of the stairs: through the growing, graying fog, he could make out several black-robed figures, semi-circled, as if in black mass, standing, waiting, on the tiled surface of the main floor below. He didn't think twice--he clapped his hands together and slapped them on the nearby wall, watching as blue, metaphysical sparks shot, in beautiful electric blue, up and over, like creeping vines, to the chandelier. One heaving snap and the whole thing fell, the sharp, iron candelabra inverted, deadly, hurtling toward the ground and those awaiting figures with the deadly accuracy of a dozen flying arrows. An ungodly crash, a flare of smoke, and then--

He was shoved in the back with such force that he fell headlong down the flight of stairs, falling, falling, and somewhere in the distance he could hear Mustang calling his name. _Roy! _His body sang a hymn of pain as he came to a crashing stop at the base of the stairs. A strange thought occurred to him then: _Why is he so damn persistent? Why? I am completely undeserving. . . _And Edward realized, through the thickening, engulfing fog that was taking over his brain, that he didn't know if he meant the emperor or Mustang. "_Edward, where is your 'I?' " _Chiaro's voice then, invading, distant. _I am undeserving, he thought again, Why?_

And his last thought, before all awareness left him completely, was that Al would arrive in Dublith tomorrow, and there would be no brother there to meet him. He could see his younger brother's face, breaking up, eyes tearing, receding into the darkness that was now claiming him for its own. . . And within that sound--in that inescapable, all-consuming darkness--a loud, thunderous roar could be heard, coming on as fast and hot as fear itself. . .

That sound was the second floor of the palazzo caving in.

End Chapter 12.

_Thank God it's Monday, people. Seriously. The title of the chapter is from a song by the White Stripes. Also, let it be known that writing any kind of action sequence makes me want to hyperventilate, and I was afraid of this chapter long before I actually had to write it_. So _please be nice.:)_


	13. Chapter 13

_I'm jumping scenes here again, people. Bear with it (though at this stage, you should be used to this story playing out of sequence by now, a la Reservoir Dogs_).

Chapter 13: Red Rain

Rain fell in slanted, unforgiving sheets across Central Command, drenching the open parade grounds that Hodge Fuery was currently attempting to cross. He gripped a (mostly useless) umbrella in one hand, and a sleek black dossier in the other; the dossier he held close to his chest as he tried to protect it from the relentless elements. His black boots slapped through standing puddles of water as he hit the staircase leading to command headquarters. In one fell _whoosh_ his umbrella was caught up in a high gust of wind, turned inside out, and yanked from his slippery grasp completely. He watched it through the wavy trails of raindrops that slid over his glasses as it bounced, once, twice, down to the bottom of the concrete stairs. It tumbled, lost, to the green of the open square. Hodge actually swore. And Hodge never swore. He turned and broke into a sprint for the entrance. It had been a horrible day. And the Ice Queen was waiting.

Hodge was afraid of her.

Brigadier General Olivier Mira Armstrong was Fuhrer Mustang's unacknowledged second in command. Hodge was scheduled to meet with the Brigadier General at 9:00 a.m., and glancing at a nearby hallway clock, the time was now 8:55. Hodge broke into another sprint, causing two passing soldiers to dodge neatly out of his way, a spray of raindrops flying in his wake. "Who let the wet dog in?" said one of the soldiers to his partner, attempting a small chuckle that instantly died in his throat. The atmosphere in Central was tense, wary, and the rumors were flying, circulating, becoming more elaborate and ominous as the base talked of only one thing:

_What happened to the fuhrer in Aquroya._ . .

Hodge rounded the corner of the hallway which lead to the Brigadier General's office. He slowed, trying his best to compose himself before entering. His uniform was soaked--nothing he could do about that--and he tried his best to dry his glasses with just his fingers. This had to be, without a doubt, the most wretched morning he had ever had to endure during his appointment here at Central. It was bad enough that he had to go and give the findings of the initial investigation from Aquroya to the Ice Queen (ah, there it was again: dread, like rain, seeping straight into his pores), but now it seemed certain, all too certain, that Amestris had lost its most beloved fuhrer--and here Hodge felt himself choke up, a well-spring of feelings that he couldn't restrain, could not plug down--and the idea that Roy Mustang, the Fuhrer of Peace, of Amestris's Golden Age, was dead and gone, and in the most ridiculous and ironic manner, seemed too cruel an idea to contemplate.

The Flame Alchemist had apparently died in a pit of fire.

Hodge straightened and opened the door leading to Armstrong's outer office. He was greeted inside by Miles, the Ishvalan who acted as the Brigadier General's personal secretary. Miles had only ever shown Hodge the most gracious and courteous of manners, but it was still unsettling how he couldn't read the other man's eyes behind the reflective lens of his glasses: he always appeared guarded, closed off. But then again, if he had to work directly under the former North Wall of Briggs, he would be guarded, too. Hodge felt himself break out in a cold sweat. Nothing to it, but to go in and give the report. . .

Hodge entered the office, posture timid and quavering as a trapped mouse, and he shut the door softly, silently behind him. The Brigadier General was currently on the telephone, barking orders, obviously reaming someone out--someone probably connected to the Aquroyan "Incident"--and her face was red and covered with an angry scowl. She abruptly slammed the receiver down, the device clanging like a bright, brassy bell. She was the very picture of rage. Hodge winced, but managed a prompt, straight salute. Armstrong's eyes were glaring, and unlike the sky that day, they were a bright, cornflower blue, a blue that was slowly narrowing into a storm cloud. Then she said:

"I hope you have something more substantial to tell me than those good-for-nothing, drunken, party-lovers in Aquroya. . ."

Another wince, but Hodge found his voice firm and unwavering as he began to speak: "The government's investigation has found the fuhrer's residence in Aquroya to be in complete ruins. The local investigators say that fire was the initial cause of the disaster, but the weak, water-logged foundations under the palazzo are what are really to blame for the cave-in. The second story fell first, and after that, a domino effect occurred, and everything collapsed into the Grand Canal. . ."

"I don't give a shit about foundations, Sergeant--what I want to know is, who is to blame for this disaster?"

Hodge gulped. The Brigadier General's body language was tense, like a pantheress ready to pounce. Somebody's head was going to roll for this, and she was obviously going to be the one to see that it happened. "The initial findings aren't clear on that matter, Brigadier General," said Hodge, his voice now betraying his warring emotions. "It could have been accidental--there were a number of lit candles in the windows; it was the Feast of Ascension, you know, and one stupid accident could have set off the entire thing. But there are also a number of unidentified bodies from the wreckage, suggesting that, possibly, this may have been an act of aggression, of sabotage. . ."

Armstrong abruptly cut him off: "And we are sure that the fuhrer himself was among those bodies?" It was the first time that Hodge had ever heard her speak with a hint of sympathy, of emotion. Perhaps the Ice Queen wasn't as unfeeling as he thought.

"Positive, Brigadier General. I have the coroner's report here." How Hodge hated saying those words.

"What else, Sergeant?"

"The resident housekeeper, Mrs. Davenport, said, in a sworn statement, that 'the fuhrer had been behaving "oddly" during his stay in Aquroya and that on the night of the incident, he had all but forced her out of the palazzo.' The same goes for the two lieutenants, Baker and West--"

"--Idiots, both of them," grumbled Armstrong.

"Otherwise, there were no other witnesses from the scene to confirm anything." Hodge thought again of Mrs. Davenport: the housekeeper had been fiercely loyal to the fuhrer, and she had been in tears while giving her statement over the phone. Again, that same word popped up in her conversation with him--odd, the fuhrer's behavior had been "odd." But what did that mean, exactly? Hodge didn't know, but he too felt that the fuhrer had not been himself over the last few days--ever since Xing, in fact, the more he thought about it. . .

_"Hodge, I want you to find the address of this man for me." _

Again, he saw the fuhrer's shaking fingers as he took the note. . .

Hodge brushed off the strange feeling he got whenever he thought of Xing and that particular moment. He almost opened his mouth to say something about it to the Brigadier General, but one single glance at her cold, angry face, and his voice was clamped into silence. It was a moment, he told himself, a moment and nothing more; it had nothing to do with the horrible tragedy of Aquroya, and certainly would only gain another disgusted look of disdain from the Brigadier General if he spoke of it. So Hodge said nothing, and quietly awaited Armstrong's next set of orders.

"Is that all, Sergeant?"

"For the initial report, Brigadier General."

"Then we leave for Aquroya immediately. I want a full investigation, and I want it run by Central Command. Aquroya is a no-good tourist town, as shifty as its foundations. I expect this won't be easy."

Hodge saluted and prepared to leave. Then he remembered an odd bit of information from the investigation packet, and he turned and said to the Brigadier General, "Oh, and there was one rather, er, strange comment, from one of the gondoliers who was near the broglio that night: he swore up and down he saw the Fullmetal Alchemist on the third floor balcony of the fuhrer's palazzo."

Armstrong froze. A moment passed, then she scoffed: "Really, Sergeant, you shouldn't listen to such nonsense from drunken gondoliers--it's absurd. And don't waste my breath by making me address such foolish statements." Another angry glare and Hodge was cowed into silence.

He gripped the dossier and silently followed the Brigadier General's retreating back from the office.

End Chapter 13.

_Next we'll return to Elysia and see how her "investigation" is going--I think she'll prove as smart as her dad when it comes to that stuff.:)_


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Visitations/Revelations

Elysia Hughes had a seat by the window on the train, and she leaned her head against the glass and watched the scenery blur by in a monotonous fashion. Green fields. Sheep. Green Fields. Sheep. More green fields. More sheep. White dots on verdant green, over and over. She was far out of Central and well into the countryside now, and she could feel herself being lulled by the soft, rhythmic rocking of the train as it sped over the tracks. Her eyelids drooped closed. Then a shadow fell over her, darkening the black behind her eyelids in a way that was unfamiliar. Then a man in a uniform said:

"Your ticket, Miss?"

Elysia jerked up in her seat. "Oh, yes, it's right here." She pulled the ticket from her coat pocket and handed it over. The man checked her ticket and turned to move on. Then he paused and said:

"Isn't that a little cumbersome to carry around like that?"

The man nodded at the large, covered canvas that was awkwardly wedged between the wall and the seat. Elysia glanced at it and looked slightly embarassed. "Uhm, yes, but I didn't have any easier way to carry it." She smiled apologetically.

"So are you an artist?"

Elysia's brown eyes widened. "Oh, no," she said. "I inherited this, um, painting--I didn't paint it."

"So it's one of those family portraits--dead ancestors and all of that?"

Elysia didn't hesitate. "Yes." Edward had been--was still--family to her, was he not?

The man in the uniform smiled and continued on down the aisle. "You have a safe trip now, miss."

Elysia watched the man's retreating back, then turned and looked at the covered portrait. She reached out her hand and smoothed it over the concealing cloth, fingers checking, nervous, almost as if she were expecting something to have gone amiss while she had dozed off. _Still there, still real. _Ever since she had found Edward's portrait in Uncle Roy's library that day, life had taken on a surreal quality. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she was now quite caught up in the grips of what could only be termed an obsession. She couldn't leave the painting alone: she had, in fact, taken it out of Uncle Roy's library and put it into her own room, and she had spent every day, for the last several days, contemplating the portrait and its possible meaning. _Something there. . . something there. _There was knowledge, she knew, to be gleaned from this one single painting, something that connected Edward to Uncle Roy's death in Aquroya, but Elysia couldn't quite grasp it. It slid, like slippery grains of unwieldy sand, through the net of her subconscious, unknowable, untouchable. She only knew that there was _something._

So she had decided to set out and find someone who might be able to figure out what that "something" was.

Elysia thought back to that day of discovery in the library. To Hodge and everything he had personally revealed to her, and the things that, together, they had managed to come up with: that Uncle Roy had found this painting while on a diplomatic mission in Xing last year. That only living people sat for these portraits. That Uncle Roy had asked for the address of the artist. That his behavior had seemed strange after returning home. And then the incident in Aquroya afterwards. . . and the odd statement from the gondolier on the Grand Canal, who swore that he saw Edward at the fuhrer's residence that very night. The man had been discredited, of course: Edward was dead and the gondolier had been more than a little inebriated (it had been carnivale, after all). So the gondolier was considered an invalid witness.

Well, Elysia didn't think it was invalid.

The train slowed and eventually came to a lumbering stop at a train station that was little more than a ticket booth and platform. Glassworth--her stop. Elysia gripped the portrait and slid it over the aisle, careful, her steps mincing, as she headed for the exit. She managed, with lack of grace, to get both herself and the painting onto the platform, and wasn't the least bit surprised to find herself alone. The town she was headed for was tiny, and she feared--no, actually dreaded--that she was going to have to walk the quarter mile into town while lugging the painting. She sighed and stared off in the distance to a tramped-down dirt road. There was no turning back now. So she started walking.

It was the longest, most trying walk ever. Elysia could have shouted for joy when she finally came over the hill and saw the little, unadorned wooden sign which read "Welcome to Glassworth." She could see the main street directly ahead--for it was the _only_ street there. Feeling hopeful, Elysia sped up, dragging the portrait with her, as she headed toward one of the largest structures on the high street: the general store.

There were a few people here and there by the storefronts, and all of them stared openly at Elysia as she passed by them: such a tiny girl dragging a huge canvas. Elysia felt conspicuous, and she ducked her head, holding the portrait directly in front of her like a protective shield. She drew closer to the general store, and noted the ramp leading in: Jean was in a wheelchair, she remembered. Elysia opened the front door, a little brass bell chiming merrily overhead, and was nearly bowled over by a large black and white dog.

"Black Hayate, down!"

The dog immediately sat still and Elysia jerked her head around at the sound of that familiar voice: Riza Hawkeye was walking towards her, in a simple skirt and blouse, blonde hair loose and tumbling, a scowl on her face. Elysia watched as she drew up short, her scowl fading and her burnt sienna eyes widening as they fell on Elysia. "Oh my God. . . Elysia?" she said, uncertainty coloring her voice. It had been almost three months since they had last seen each other--

--_at Uncle Roy's funeral in Central, thought Elysia._

"Hello, Riza."

Hawkeye turned her head and shouted, "Jean--come out here! We have a special guest!"

"Guests? I don't want any guests; I got a ton of orders to fill here--" Jean Havoc's wheelchair rolled into view, and his sentence abruptly broke off the moment he set eyes on Elysia. "Elysia! What are you doing way out here? And look at you! I swear, you get prettier every day--you're practically all grown up now--isn't she, Riza?"

"Yes she is." Riza agreed.

Black Hayate was up and moving again, this time sniffing at the edge of the covered canvas. "Black Hayate, no!" said Riza. The dog looked ashamed and slunk off into a corner. Riza's eyebrows knitted together. "What have you got there, Elysia?"

Elysia picked up the portrait and held it out in front of her. "Well, this is actually what I'm here about." Elysia looked around her; no other patrons were currently in the store. So it was now or never. She slowly, and very carefully, began to unfurl the covering from the canvas, unwrapping it like a well-preserved mummy, until it stood there in its full black, red, and gold glory. Elysia heard Riza suck in her breath, long before taking in the shocked look in her eyes. Jean let out a long whistle. No one said anything. It wasn't necessary; Elysia understood the inherit power, the impact of the painting. The reaction was no longer new to her.

"Do you see the date in the corner?" asked Elysia, pointing. "It's from last year. This artist only paints people who sit for him--living people."

Elysia allowed the words to hang in the air, and waited. But the reaction she got was not what she expected. A single look, a telling glance, passed between Riza and Jean. Just a small, almost nearly insignificant look--there and gone in the breath of an instant--of silent communication, of collusion. Elysia blinked, and looked questioningly at the both of them. No, not possible that she missed it. It had definitely been there. She opened her mouth, and the words came tumbling out in quick succession:

"I think that Edward is alive and he had something to do with Uncle Roy's death in Aquroya."

She spoke madness, she knew. In the naked light of day, in this store, in a small town, such a conspiracy theory sounded absurd, even to her own ears. Even though she knew, she _knew,_ that her gut instinct was right, that there was something _there_. . .

And then there was that knowing look on Riza and Jean's face, there and gone again, a flash of knowledge, of familiarity.

And not enough surprise from them, thought Elysia. Not by a long shot. Or grief, for that matter. Riza had cried openly at Uncle Roy's funeral. Riza, who was always so strong, so contained, had shed a rainstorm of tears for the beloved, late fuhrer. Now it seemed as if she felt nothing; her reaction to Elysia's odd accusations was blank, nothing.

_Nothing._

A sudden realization began to dawn: small, winking, like a candle, then brighter, hotter, like the sun, blazing. . .

A frown came over Elysia's delicate features. "You _know._" she hissed in a whisper. A direct accusation, and it was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Riza actually stepped back. Riza, the "Hawk'e Eye," who was afraid of nothing, of no one, was actually backing away from the accusations of a teenage girl. Riza's expression was dumbfounded, disbelieving. She turned to Jean for help.

"Jean--"

"Riza, don't." said Jean, and there was a finality there, a giving in. He turned his wheelchair around, and glancing back over his shoulder, he told Elysia, "Come on, follow me."

Elysia walked into the back office with Jean, her hands still desperately clutching the portrait. She watched as Jean went around to a banged up, cluttered desk, take a key out of his pocket, and unlock a small side drawer. From this drawer, he pulled out a single cream colored envelope. The only thing written on it was the address of the general store. He offered it to Elysia: "Go on--read it." He flicked the envelope towards her, waiting. Elysia, fingers now shaking uncontrollably, reached out and took the profered letter. With utmost delicacy, she removed the matching cream-colored paper and unfolded it. In silence, she read:

_Dear Riza and Jean,_

_First, let me say that whatever pain I have caused you both was completely unintentional, but unfortunately necessary. This letter is my way to make up for that. I know you both believe me to be dead, lost to a fiery grave in a far away city, but it is not true. You know far too well what I'm capable of to believe such a thing. You both remember the Maria Ross incident. Well, that time was a shoddy, incomplete ruse compared to what I have done now. Believe me, and believe what I tell you next as well--_

_He is with me._

_I don't have to say his name. Riza, you, of all people, should know. I thought I had stopped believing in miracles, but they are, in fact, possible. He has made me believe them. And of all the things that I have regret doing--Ishval, the massacre, all of it--nothing, nothing has compared to the regret I have felt for the thing I did not do, the thing that I could not, in good conscience, do those many years ago, which was to stop him from leaving. I have regretted not doing that for far too many years now, even though my heart knew at the time that I could not--would not--stand in the way of his goals. So I let him go._

_Well, that's all finished now._

_My career is finished as well, but I am at peace with that. Did I not do as I promised? Did I not achieve the goals that I set out to achieve? The country is at peace and so I am. And I hope I remain in your good graces. And I also hope that you are both happy for me, as I have, now, the very happiness that I have wanted for so long._

_You should burn this letter after reading it. I don't know if you will or not. But please guard this secret, as well and as long as you have always guarded all of my secrets. You are my most loyal friends, and I depend on you in this._

_R._

The paper had started to sprout darkened spots, and it took Elysia a few moments to realize that the spots were, in fact, her own tears falling on the page. Not tears of sadness or despair--no. They were happy tears. Tears of gladness. Because now she knew for certain--she _knew_--that she had been right all along. And it was all okay. In fact, it was better than okay--

Because Uncle Roy was alive!

He was alive and he was with Edward and everything was alright with them. Elysia smiled, and wiped her sleeve across her smudged, dampened eyes. It was all okay. The knowledge wrapped around her, snug and sure as a warm, winter blanket, and in the back of her mind she had another fleeting thought:

_ How very happy her own father would have been at this . . ._

_End Chapter 14._

_Did you just choke on all that warm, gooey goodness? Diabetic shock? Er, sorry. But c'mon people--you gotta give me some love for this. . .  
_


	15. Chapter 15

_Here's the end everyone! Thanks so much to all of you who were kind enough to leave comments on this story. It helped me along in finishing it, and I'm terrible at finishing things, so it's a minor miracle of sorts. The chapter title is from the poetry of George Gordon, Lord Byron._

Chapter 15: All that's Best of Dark and Bright

Dust motes danced and dipped in between rays of bright afternoon sunlight, sunlight that was only slightly muted by the the layers of dirt caked on the wide window panes, dirt that probably had been there for years, collecting, unnoticed and untouched, by the all too absent-minded shop owner. The dust--like windblown snowflakes-- shifted, gathered, and fell: alighting here and there on various shelves of books, drawn, like bees to flower petals, to their all-too-alluring spines and covers, seeking union, joining. Books and dust, it seemed, went hand and hand, and the shop was overflowing with books: on shelves, on random tables, even in stacks on the bare floor--some so tall that they were a hazard, a trap just waiting to be sprung on some unsuspecting customer. Stacks so high that they listed, swayed, and it seemed at times that a single dust mote more would be enough to topple an entire column, pitching it to the ground. Leather covers, clothed in uniforms of grimy gray film, went on, for row after row, as far as the eye could see, all the way to the back of the shop, rendering its very walls invisible. The smell of all that leather and dust--ancient, decaying, molding--to some, would be appalling, but to Edward, who had grown up in libraries surrounded by nothing but old alchemy books, it smelled familiar, right, soothing.

It smelled almost like home.

Edward sat on the sill of the shop's large picture window, a book opened and abandoned by his side, watching the retreating figure of his brother as he made his way up the cobblestone street. The sureness of his brother's gait made Edward smile: no more grayish pallor, no more coughing blood. It was wonderful to see Alphonse so healthy, rejuvenated. It made everything that he'd gone through--Xing, the emperor, the effort, the running--all worth it. Edward smiled as he thought of how changed Alphonse was from Xing, how energetic--well, not entirely changed, as he remembered that Alphonse was just in here, giving him a good dressing-down for slacking off on the job.

_"Brother, if you don't stop reading books all day and start working, you're going to get fired, just like Sheska."_

_"Don't worry, Al, Mr. Tattenborough's out to lunch, and he always takes an hour and a half. Besides, have you seen some of the alchemy books in here? Remember when were we looking for stuff on Xingian alchemy--well, that old Codger has a whole section back there! Can you believe it? The man is a miser for hording all this gold. I swear, when we leave here, I might just have to 'accidentally' take some of this stuff with me."_

_"Brother!"_

_"What? It's not like he uses these books personally. He trades them for money. Some of his patrons live as far away as Drachma and he only deals with them through correspondence. Like black market books or something. Besides, if I did take something, it's not like I would get in trouble. Though I don't think Russell Tringham would like having another theft charge on his personal record."_

_"Ed, you didn't. . ."_

_"What? Don't you dare lecture me, Al; you know Tringham deserves it. He stole my identity--twice."_

_Alphonse shook his head, reproachful. Edward thought a change in subject was in order: "So, how did tutoring go today?"_

_Alphonse's expression immediately brightened, and Ed mentally congratulated himself on the way he had managed to deftly maneuver the conversation away from himself. "Oh, it was good, brother. The Sparling boys are going to be very talented alchemists one day--especially the older one. He reminds me a lot of you when you were little. He's only seven, but you should have seen this animal statue he made in the backyard today--it was just like that time you made that horse for mom." Alphonse was beaming, and Ed basked in the glow of that happy smile. Alphonse--gentle, patient, smart--had taken up tutoring alchemy for extra money, and Ed thought that his brother may have just found his true calling._

_"I'm glad it's going well for you, Al. I couldn't do it--I don't have the patience. And it doesn't hurt that the Sparlings are loaded. A little more money and we'll be able to pack up and leave soon."_

_Al nodded, but his expression fell a bit. "It's too bad, though. I kind of like being this close to Dublith, and I like the kids I'm teaching--a lot."_

_Ed merely nodded. He made a mental note to talk to Al later about their current situation. Perhaps, maybe--just maybe--it might be okay for Al to stay near Dublith for a while longer, but as for him and Roy. . ._

_Well, for now they needed to keep moving._

_"Well, I'm going to get going, brother. I'm supposed to tutor the Donovan kids tonight at seven, and they're kind of a handful. I thought I might go ask teacher for some tips or something."_

_"You might want to be careful with that, Al. I don't think the Donovan kids' parents would appreciate you leaving their kids on an island for a month by themselves with just the elements."_

_"Stop being so melodramatic, Ed. I can't believe how you still go on about that after all these years. . ."_

Edward shifted his position on the window seat, stretching. His head swivelled toward the mountain of books stacked on the ground beside him. He was supposed to be cataloging them, making sure they were properly entered into the stock ledger, yet he just couldn't seem to get motivated. _"You're going to get fired. . ."_ Alphonse's warning echoed in the back of his head, but he turned a deaf ear to it, allowing his thoughts instead to wander into more pleasant, greener pastures. _ Roy. _Without realizing it, a large, preoccupied smile had crept its way up his face, and he was lost to all thought of the outside world. That is, until a large, jarring knock on the window pane jolted him firmly back into reality--

_Roy._

Edward found himself staring into the hooded face of Mustang, who was hovering, a smile on his face, just on the other side of the window. It was like he had simply materialized, formed from the very alchemy of his own imagination. Edward's own smile widened. "What are you doing here?" he practically yelled, so Mustang could hear him through the barrier of the glass. No answer, but instead Mustang left the window, and Edward assumed he was coming around to the front of the shop. The door creaked open and slammed shut. Before Edward even had a chance to get up, Mustang was there, and there was a look on his face--dreamy, wistful, slightly yearning, even--that kept Edward rooted to the spot.

"Don't move," whispered Mustang.

"What--why?"

"You look just like you did in the painting. I saw you in the window like that from the street, and I couldn't help but think of it. . ." Edward looked down at himself, and he realized Roy was right: he had been sitting, one leg bent and his hand propped up on his knee, head turned and staring out the window--just like his pose form Chiaro's portrait. He had been completely unaware of it until Roy had pointed it out.

And then there was that look on Roy's face: covetous, yearning, desiring. . .

Edward was up and off the window sill before he knew it--his arms around Roy, mouth questing, hungry. Hunger was the right word for it: these were kisses born out of starvation, of denial. The pile of books by the window toppled and fell. Edward didn't spare them a glance. Alphonse was wrong, it wasn't reading books on the job that was going to get him fired--

Edward felt Roy wince under the assault and promptly drew back, remembering. "Uh, sorry. How's the teeth?"

Mustang rubbed his jaw, hands scraping over newly-grown dark stubble. "Still sore."

"I can't believe you made me pull them out."

"It was necessary, and you know it. They would've checked the dental records, and it needed to be as real as possible. A couple of my teeth, some hair, some fingernails--well, in the end it was a small sacrifice. And those arrays you picked up from Doctor Wong did a great job of numbing the pain."

Edward's eyes darkened into an unsure shade of bronze. He stepped back, out of Mustang's embrace. "I can't believe I almost fucked up that night. . ."

"Edward--don't," Mustang's voice was firm, commanding, a voice that would brook no argument. "You fought like a tiger that night. It was amazing, really. If we did the whole "Flame v. Fullmetal" contest today, I think you would probably end up kicking my ass."

"But we almost didn't make it to the basement in time, to the stupid tunnel under the Broglio; it almost _all_ caved in--"

Mustang grabbed him, seemed almost on the verge of shaking him. "Stop. We made it and it's done now. And I don't regret anything. Not anymore." Mustang allowed his voice to trail off into a whisper, eyes softening. "And I don't want you to regret anything, either--promise?"

"Promise." A small smile managed to return to Ed's face. "So--you think if we did the whole contest thing now--I would really win?" His tone was teasing: a slow, edging return from the gloom that had been threatening to settle in.

"Maybe," Mustang replied in his own teasing voice. "But what I'm most interested in is that little whip trick you pulled--I think I wouldn't mind seeing that again." A sexy, dangerous smirk appeared on Mustang's face.

"Oh, would you now?" Edward's lips had curved up into their own insinuating smile, ravenous, with lots of teeth. _The big, bad wolf. _ "I think I might be able to arrange a private demonstration later. Say--around seven o'clock?" Mustang quirked an eyebrow, and Edward clarified: "Al made a point of saying he would be out tutoring then. I've noticed that he's made it a point to mention_ exactly_ when he'll be out of the house lately. . . I think he's doing it as a courteous for the both of us."

"And to prevent his retinas from being seared out of his eye sockets--"

Edward playfully slapped the side of Mustang's grizzled face with his flesh hand. "Don't be an ass. He's my brother and he's just trying to give us some space. Did you see the look on his face when I showed up in Dublith with you in tow--it was kind of a shock."

"Not as big a shock as when I showed up in Aquroya--and you nearly killed me."

"Don't whine--you shouldn't have snuck up on me wearing a mask like that. It was unexpected."

"Finding that painting of you in Xing was what was unexpected. By the way, you owe that painter friend of yours a case of Amestrian Whisky."

Edward looked offended. "I can't believe he told you about that bet--that man has a one track mind: booze and paint. Still, I suppose I owe him more whisky for this than I'll ever actually be able to repay in my lifetime. By the way. . . what did you do with that painting?"

A small, fleeting look of regret flitted across Mustang's face. "I left it locked up in my library in Central. I suppose, according to my will, it will go to Elysia now."

"That's too bad," said Edward.

"Why is that?" asked Mustang, genuinely confused.

"Because, it was a _really_ good painting."

Mustang lifted his hand to Edward's face--the same face (hell, the same look) from the portrait. _Gold eyes of fire._ No wonder he'd always been attracted to fire, to flame. It burned, yet at the same cleansed. It was volatile, hard to control. It consumed, engulfed. And it was so _very_ hypnotizing to look at. . .

"I don't need the painting," whispered Mustang with complete confidence. "Because I have what I want: the_ real _thing."

End/Fin.


End file.
